


In the Forests of the Night

by Bridgesto



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Original Character Death(s), Stilinski Family Feels, Torture, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgesto/pseuds/Bridgesto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Stilinski should have known better than to congratulate himself on an uneventful day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viola25](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viola25/gifts).



> For Viola25, who requested a story. 
> 
>  
> 
> Post-season 2, post Alpha-pack. Destined to be immediately Jossed. 
> 
> A thousand thanks to Mercurydraconix, who held my hand and helped me add some actual plot to this thing. And to Viola25 for final beta and pushing me to be better. 
> 
> Title is from William Blake's "The Tyger". 
> 
> Also, this is totally done, I'm just cleaning it up at this point. I'll post each chapter as I finish polishing it, one a day if we're lucky but it may take longer.

 

Greg Stilinski is having a pretty normal day, all things considered.  Slow but productive, with no major emergencies, no unexplained murders, and no animal attacks.  It was the best kind of day for a cop: Uneventful. 

Greg is just unlocking the front door, wondering what fresh hell of healthy greens and fiber Stiles has set aside for him tonight, when there’s a rustling from the bushes and Isaac Lahey staggers up the steps and collapses at his feet.

“What - Jesus Christ,” Greg mutters, dropping to his knees next to Isaac and reaching for his phone.

Isaac’s blond curls are tangled and matted.  He’s literally soaked in blood and there are at least three projectiles ( _arrows,_ part of his brain whispers, _they’re arrows_ ) embedded in Isaac’s body.  When Isaac sees Greg leaning over him he flinches away and curls into himself with a faint moan.

“Hang on kid, I’m calling an ambulance.” Greg says, trying to keep the fury out of his voice.  Isaac’s had a rough time of it, and what Greg had wanted to do to Isaac’s father is nothing compared to what he wants to do to whoever did this.  

Greg wasn’t expecting a gush of gratitude, but he _definitely_ wasn’t expecting Isaac to uncurl and knock the phone from his hands with a harsh, “ _No,_ no, don’t! Mr. Stilinski...Sheriff, please, don’t.  Where’s Stiles?  Get - get Stiles.”

“What?  No, Isaac, we need to get you to a hospital.” Greg says, reaching for his phone – blood loss makes people act real weird sometimes – but the kid reaches up and grabs his hand, hanging on with a grip that’s significantly stronger than anyone who’s lost that much blood should be able to manage.

“ _No,_ ” Isaac says again.  There’s an edge of panic in his voice. “ _No,_ I need to see Stiles - his Jeep’s here...where’s Stiles? Get Stiles!”

Greg forces himself to ignore the alarm bells clanging in his head, that an injured kid shot full of arrows somehow desperately wants to talk to his son _in lieu_ of _medical attention_ , but he doesn’t have time for that right now.

“Stiles isn’t here,” Greg tells him, “He’s out with Scott, I promise you can see him later. Just hang on kid.” Greg looks down as Isaac’s hands tighten around Greg’s arm.

“No!  No doctors!  Just, the arrows.” Isaac says, panting, “Get them out.”

Greg is afraid to pull away lest he make things worse, but the kid needs an ambulance _yesterday –_ and Greg is no medical expert, but he knows this is not the kind of thing he’s equipped to deal with himself.

“Isaac,” he says, as gently as he can, “Listen buddy, I know this hurts and you’re scared, but I really need to call an ambulance for you.  You gotta let me go so I can grab my phone.”

“ _No,_ ” Isaac insists, “No…hospitals.  You have to take the arrows out, I can’t…” he breaks off, coughing, a wet, hacking sound that leaves flecks of blood on the sleeve of Greg’s uniform.

“Isaac,” Greg makes his voice firm, “I can’t take the arrows out, you’ll bleed to death. You need to let me get my phone, come on.”

“Can’t - ” Isaac pants for breath, “No, _listen,_ listen, it’s…mountain ash.  I can’t, can’t touch them.  You have to pull them out, _please._ ”

Greg hasn’t known Isaac all that long, just since Lydia Martin got mauled at the homecoming dance, Mr. Lahey’s death and the associated investigation, jailbreak, and resolution.  Isaac was a scared kid, sporting a shiner Greg hadn’t liked the look of when they’d first met.  Later, when Isaac had started hanging around with Derek Hale and his crowd, joined first line on the lacrosse team and made friends with Scott and Stiles, he’d been a punk kid in a leather jacket, a gallon of hair gel, and a capital A Attitude.  And now he’s bleeding all over Greg’s porch and seems hell-bent on preventing Greg from getting him medical help.  Jesus.

“Look,” Isaac is saying, “Look, you have to believe me.  I’ll be fine if you just pull the arrows out, but I can’t touch them, look!”

With his free hand, Isaac grabs at the shaft of one of the arrows, the one stuck in his gut.  Greg is reaching to stop him pulling the damn thing out when he realizes that Isaac seems to be _physically unable_ to grasp the wood.

“…what the hell is going on here?” Greg asks, his phone temporarily forgotten.

In his moment of distraction, Isaac tugs Greg’s hand to one of the arrows, wraps Greg’s fingers around it, and yanks. Isaac convulses and moans - an awful, tortured sound that no teenager should ever have to make _ever._

“ _Shit!_ ” Greg yells, slamming one hand down on the kid’s abdomen, other hand still fisted around the bloody arrow Isaac has just forced him to pull out of a wound against _all_ emergency first aid procedures. Too late, anything he does will be too late to stop him bleeding out, except…

“Better,” Isaac gasps, “look, see?”

Greg watches, hands covered in blood, as Isaac pulls up his t-shirt, shoving Greg’s hand away and –

“Oh holy god, what _is_ this?  What – why-”

The ragged wound in Isaac’s stomach is shrinking as Greg watches, vanishing into unblemished (if still blood-smeared) skin.

Isaac squeezes Greg’s hand, and when Greg meets his eyes the kid gives him an unblinking stare and says, “Please.  Sheriff Stilinski, you have to help me.  No ambulances, just get the arrows out, they’re…they’re poison, _please._ ”

Greg is still debating making a dive for his phone when there’s a growl from the deepening twilight of the front lawn and something with glowing red eyes and _fangs_ bounds up the steps and knocks him flat on his back.  

Greg struggles upright, reaching for his gun now, phone be damned, to find Derek Hale crouched by Isaac’s side and emitting a long, low, continuous growl.  He’s got Isaac pulled halfway into his lap, is cradling Isaac’s gangly, bleeding form like a child – or a brother.  Isaac has one hand locked around Hale’s left forearm while Hale makes ineffectual grabs at the remaining two arrow shafts.

Greg stares at the two of them in amazement, wondering if he’s going crazy. 

“Derek,” Isaac is saying, repeating the name like a mantra, “Derek, Derek, it’s mountain ash, you have to let him help, he’s trying to help.”

Greg moves cautiously forward, hands outstretched to show he means no harm.  Hale turns glowing red eyes towards him and, are those really _fangs?_ Greg has got to start listening to Stiles about his diet, because something is clearly inducing hallucinations.  Greg is starting to think Stiles might be onto something with that whole organic thing.

“Just here to help,” he says, easing closer, “Hale?  You want to explain what’s going on here?”

The red light in Hale’s eyes bleeds away into normal, human hazel and when he looks up at Greg he looks…normal again.  When he speaks, his voice is raw and every word is bitten off like it’s painful to part with.

“We don’t have a lot of time here Sheriff, and none of this is going to make sense, so you’re going to need to trust me.  Isaac and I can’t touch the arrows, but you can, and if you can get them out, Isaac can heal himself.  Right now, they’re poisoning him, and it will only get worse the longer they stay in.” Hale now has one hand cradling Isaac’s head, the other matching Isaac’s white-knuckle grip.  Isaac’s breathing is harsh and ragged, and the hand that’s not doing its best to break Hale’s fingers is buried in Hale’s t-shirt and holding on for dear life.

As Greg waivers, uncertain, Isaac turns and vomits up something black and foul smelling.  Hale sucks in a quick breath, a muscle in his jaw tensing, then looks up at Greg.

“ _Please,_ ” Hale says from between clenched teeth, “Please, he’s _dying._ ”

“Okay,” Greg finds himself saying, and it’s against _everything he knows,_ but he’d pulled that first arrow himself, saw the wound heal.  That healing wound is actually the most solidly real thing in this surreal night, and from the sound of Isaac’s breathing and the pallor of his skin, they might not have time to wait for an ambulance anyway.

Greg hears Hale’s breath catch, looks up to find Hale staring back at him, stunned, like he’d expected Greg to say no...and that, more than anything, makes up Greg’s mind for him.

“Okay,” Greg says again.  He takes a deep breath, kneeling by Isaac’s side, and reaches for the arrow embedded in the kid’s shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the blood-soaked wood and pulls, as carefully as he can, until the point of the arrow comes free with a sickening squelch.

Isaac moans through his teeth and his eyes flare golden for an instant, before he’s collapsing back against Hale, sweat-soaked and panting.

“One…more,” Isaac grits out, skin knitting together smoothly, and turns his face into Hale’s side. 

Greg reaches for the third arrow and pulls it too.  The tips aren’t barbed, thank god for that, so it could have been worse. Greg watches the gaping red of the wound in Isaac’s thigh close itself over and stands up with a sigh. Isaac’s breathing is evening out, some color returning to his face, though he’s still sickly-pale.  Hale is leaning over him, forehead pressed to Isaac’s.  He takes a deep breath, then looks up at Greg.  Greg holsters his sidearm and pushes his front door open.

“Inside, both of you.  Now.”

Hale looks unhappy about it, but he hauls Isaac to his feet and walks them both through the door.  Greg stops to grab his cell and, as an afterthought, the bloody arrows, then follows them in.  His porch is now covered in blood and worse, but it will have to keep.

Inside, Hale is standing in the middle of Greg’s kitchen, holding Isaac up with one arm around his waist.  Isaac is listing heavily to one side and looks on the verge of collapse – though still significantly better than when Greg had thought he’d had a dying teenager on his hands.  Now Isaac just looks ill and –

“Sit down before you fall down, son.” Greg says, as kindly as he can.

Isaac looks to Hale, and Hale nods, stepping sideways to the kitchen table.  Isaac sinks down onto one of the kitchen chairs and hunches over miserably, shivering.  Hale remains standing, one hand resting on Isaac’s matted curls, eyeing Greg with caution.

Greg washes his hands thoroughly, grabs a clean towel from a drawer, runs some water over it and tosses it to Hale, tilting his head towards Isaac.

“Can you get him cleaned up?”

Hale takes the towel, but shakes his head and says, “He’s going to need new clothes at this point.”

Greg guesses that’s fair. The wounds are closed, Isaac’s just a godawful mess.  Derek hands the cloth to Isaac, who scrubs it half-heartedly over his face and then drops it to lean heavily into Derek, eyes closed and still too pale.

Greg keeps his hands in plain sight and doesn’t make any sudden movements, but he holds Hale’s gaze and asks, “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” Hale says reluctantly, and he looks like it’s killing him to admit it.  “He should be fine, I don’t think there was...anything...on the arrows.  He _should_ be fine.” 

“Is there anything we can do?”

“I – water, maybe.” Hale says, unbending a little.  He glances down at Isaac and grimaces.  His expression is an odd mixture – frustration and anger are dominant, but there’s something about the way he’s standing, body oriented protectively towards Isaac...

 _Trapped,_ Greg decides, he looks like a cornered animal, tired, pained, and desperate, and Greg remembers that for all Derek Hale is a sometime criminal suspect, he’s also very young, and lost his family younger.

Greg forces himself to relax his stance, holds up both hands in a gesture of good faith and says, “I’ll get some water.”

Hale nods and tracks his every movement as Greg goes about filling a glass from the tap.  When Greg returns with the water he hands it to Hale and takes a seat at the chair across the table.  The table is between them now, but it still puts him closer to Isaac and he can feel Hale’s whole body tense, reacting to a potential threat; Greg takes care to keep his movements slow, his hands visible.  Sitting puts him at a disadvantage relative to Hale; it’s a strategic decision and after a moment the other man snorts and sits as well, scooting his chair close to Isaac’s.  He hands the water to Isaac, who drains the glass in seconds and curls over to lay his head on the table, pressed as close to Hale’s side as he can get.  Hale lays one arm across Isaac’s shoulders, sheltering, and Isaac relaxes a little.

Greg waits until Hale looks up at him again, then says carefully, “I really should call in my officers – but!” Greg holds up one hand as Hale tenses and Isaac whimpers, “but there’s a lot here I don’t understand and I’m not sure that would be the right move.  So.  Start talking, Hale.  What’s going on here?”

The other man stares back at him, expression unreadable, his free hand clenched against his thigh.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “I’m not – Isaac and the others were…”

He breaks off as Isaac lifts his head a bit, pushing himself up to whisper, “Derek, he’s Stiles’ dad.  There’s no one else, I think we have to trust him.  He’ll help Stiles.”

At that Greg almost reaches for his sidearm again, can feel himself kicking into high gear.  Not cop-mode, or even emergency-mode, but _dad-mode,_ because something is going on here that he doesn’t understand, but what he _does_ understand is that Isaac Lahey showed up on his doorstep with injuries that should by all rights have been fatal, and Isaac Lahey thinks his son is in some kind of trouble.  

“Isaac,” Greg says, leaning forward, tone more urgent than is wise, ignoring Hale entirely, “Isaac what happened?  Where is Stiles?  Is he in trouble?”

Isaac nods wearily, and Greg looks up at Hale for confirmation, finds it in Hale’s bleak stare.

“Alright,” Greg says, reining himself in with an effort, “Need to know information.  I get the feeling we don’t have a lot of time.”

Hale’s lips peel back from his teeth in what might generously be called a smile.

“Fine,” he says, “we _don’t_ have a lot of time, so for Stiles’ sake, keep it together.” He waits for Greg’s impatient nod, then says, “I’m a werewolf.”

Greg watches with horrified fascination as Derek Hale’s eyes glow crimson, as his face ripples and morphs: fangs growing in his mouth, fur sprouting from bare skin.  Hale rolls his neck and lifts one clawed hand.

“Exhibit A,” he says, voice a deep growl, then pauses as his face settles back into normal human features.  “It’s a long story and very complicated, but what you need to know is that there are werewolves.  I’m one, Isaac is another and so is Stiles’ friend Scott.”

Greg finds that he’s pressed himself firmly against the back of his chair, one hand gripping the handle of his gun so hard it feels welded to his palm.  He’d been trying to put Hale at ease by giving him some space, but now he finds he’s desperately grateful there’s a table between them because _Jesus Christ_ Derek Hale is a _werewolf._  He’d been hoping that nonsense on the porch was a hallucination of some sort, a trick of the light. No such luck, it appears.

Greg swallows hard, forces words past fear-stiffened lips. “And Stiles?” His voice is a harsh rasp, but it only shakes a little.

Hale shakes his head, and Greg allows himself to breathe.

“No,” Hale says, “He’s not, but he’s been helping us.”  Hale’s expression is oddly pained.

“Helping with _what?_ ” Greg asks, so far out of his depth he’s wondering if he’ll ever surface again.

“Hunters.” Hale says, voice tight, eyes flaring red.  He doesn’t elaborate, but Greg figures he can guess Hale’s meaning well enough.  “We were supposed to be training tonight,” The other man continues, eyes fierce. “Something happened.  I was late and by the time I arrived everyone was gone.  I – there was a lot of blood.  I couldn't – Isaac’s trail was the clearest. I followed it here.”

Greg nods to show he understands, even though he doesn’t really, and leans forward.

“And Stiles was at this training thing?”

Hale looks down at Isaac, shaking his head.  “He should have been.  The scents were all confused.  Isaac,” he says, and his voice is gentle, but there’s an unmistakable note of command in it. “Isaac, I need you to tell me what happened.”

Isaac is looking marginally better, his color somewhat improved. At Hale’s words he takes a deep breath and pushes himself into a shakily vertical position.  He spares a quick glance for Greg, but his eyes are on Hale when he answers.

“I was late too,” he says, “I was running, and I was late, and then I heard – I heard people yelling, and…the air felt funny?  I got to the meeting place and no one was there, but there was this weird smell…and someone started shooting at me and I ran…” Isaac shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I should have stayed, I should have helped…”

“ _No,_ ” Hale says, low and fierce, “No, you did the right thing.  We wouldn’t have known.  I didn’t know either.  We’ll get them back, _I’ll_ get them back.”  Hale’s dark hair is tousled and wild.  His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, a hint of desperation in his eyes.  Greg has seen that look before - it’s the look a man gets when the whole world is against him, but he’s planning to go down fighting anyway.  Time to head _that_ one off at the pass.  

“Whoa, hold on there Hale,” Greg says, leaning forward, “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Hale looks up at him, wary, and Greg says, “My son’s out there.  You’re not doing this alone.”

Hale’s expression softens, just a little, some of the lurking panic receding from his eyes.  He nods, then he and Isaac both jolt as though shocked and turn towards the front door.

Greg stands, gun in hand, looking from the two werewolves to the entryway.

“What?” He says, “What is it?”

Hale is about to answer when there’s a frantic banging on the door.  Hale stands, Isaac close behind him and the three of them move to the door.  Greg looks through the spyhole, then jerks the door open.

“ _Lydia Martin?_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia dressed warmly because it was fall and because Allison told her to.  She wore the stylish sneakers she wears whenever she goes to the gym instead of heels because when she answered her door in heels Allison leveled a _look_ at her.

“What?” Lydia argued reasonably, “Look, if something happens I’ll probably be wearing heels anyway.  Aren’t we going for realism here?”

“We are,” Allison agreed, narrowing her eyes in a way that Lydia recognized from experience, “But we’re also trying to avoid sprained ankles, which is what you’ll get if you come out to the preserve in the dark in heels.”

Lydia started to say something, but Allison cut her off.

“Look, think of this as, as _athletic chic._ You can pull this off, and I won’t have to worry about getting one of the others to carry you home when you trip over a rock or something.”

Lydia knew when she was beaten, and she gave in with a pout and a toss of her curls.  Allison grinned at her and promised to let Lydia take her shopping over the weekend.

 

Lydia is currently standing in a clearing, silently grateful for both the warm clothes and the sneakers (she tripped three times just getting here from the road) with Allison, Scott, Erica, Boyd and Stiles.  It’s taken them a while to integrate the humans, even apart from getting the Betas to work together, but now they all come to all the pack events, even when it means tromping around in the woods at night and making questionable fashion statements in semi-public.  It’s not exactly ideal, but it beats the alternative, and Lydia finds she likes to be useful _almost_ as much as she likes to be admired. 

It doesn’t hurt that saving everyone’s asses on occasion gets her the kind of admiration most people never see in a lifetime.  It’s...heady.

So Lydia is standing in a clearing in the preserve watching Scott and Allison revolve around each other like twin moons, watching Erica and Boyd scuffle in the leaves while Stiles bitches about the cold and Derek, the drive and Derek, Harris and his history project, and of course, Derek.

“He’s always late,” Stiles complains, “ _Always._ We get here and stand around, freezing our asses off, and _twenty minutes later_ he shows up all slinky and black leather -”

“Slinky?” Lydia asks, raising one eyebrow.

Stiles blushes a bit, waves his hands theatrically to cover.

“Slinky!” he says, “I swear he does it just to be sure of an audience when he makes his stupid, drama-queen entrances.”

Lydia purses her lips and nods, looking around the clearing.  Derek _is_ always late, and Isaac hasn’t showed up yet either.  They’re practicing tracking today.  Or, the wolves are practicing tracking, and the humans are practicing _covering_ their tracks.  Allison is armed, Stiles and Lydia are carrying a variety of defensive weapons - after the Alpha pack, they don’t take any chances. 

Still, tonight is a lighthearted affair as these things go, in spite of the chill.  Nothing has tried to kill anyone for at least a month, and morale is - well, probably at an all-time high, honestly. 

Lydia is just about to ask Stiles what he _really_ thinks of Derek’s flare for the dramatic when Scott stills and throws out one hand.

“Someone’s coming.” He says, and the mood shifts from playful to _defense_ in an instant. 

They’ve drilled this, have the routine down pat.  Boyd and Erica come forward to join Scott, while Allison takes a step back and strings an arrow, holding it loosely, but ready to fire. Stiles and Lydia join them, keeping close to the wolves, and they move as a group for the shelter of the trees.

The werewolves are all sniffing the air, hackles up, growling faintly.  They’re not really shifted, but they’re on the edge of it - eyes just a little brighter, teeth and nails a little sharper than normal. 

“Where?” Boyd says, scanning the trees.

“I can’t tell!” Scott replies, frustrated, “It’s definitely there though, what -”

“There!” Allison says, whirling and bringing her bow to bear on a black-clad figure stepping out from behind a tree.

Allison and Stiles, who are closest, both reach out to shove Lydia behind them, and the werewolves surge forward to close ranks with Scott. 

 “Stop right there!” Allison says, in the hard, authoritative tones she only uses in times like these.  Lydia barely recognizes her when she’s like this - this Allison is cold and hard and lethally effective with a bow, nothing like the shy, smiling girl that laughs with Lydia over the latest issue of Cosmo, or emerges from a bowl of cookie dough with flour smeared across her nose.

“Who are you?” Allison asks, still standing slightly ahead of the wolves.  Allison is their spokeswoman for humans, the wolves will stay back unless and until they’re needed.

“Oh, I’m Bill,” the man says nonchalantly, stepping forward into the moonlight. 

He’s thin, maybe forty-ish, hair already starting to go grey.  He’s not carrying any visible weapons and he looks harmless enough, except that he’s wandering around in the preserve at night and seems far too self-assured for anyone with any kind of legitimate reason to be out here at this hour.    

 Bill spreads his hands peaceably and smiles.

“And you are…?”

“Allison,” Allison says, raising her chin and meeting his eyes with a degree of confidence that Lydia thinks is probably about ninety-nine percent bravado.  “Allison Argent.”

Bill tilts his head and examines her more closely. There’s something odd and birdlike about the gesture, almost predatory. Lydia shivers.

“An _Argent_ ,” he says, and he sounds delighted, “Oh, but that’s perfect.  How very precious, an Argent running with the wolves.  They’re not lying.  This town really has gone to the dogs.”

At that, Boyd growls, Erica’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Scott takes a half-step forward, irises flaring gold.  Allison reaches out and grabs him by the arm before he can do something predictable and stupid.  Good thing Allison has common sense in spades, Lydia thinks; at least _one_ of them does.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.” Allison tells him, “And you’re trespassing.  You don’t belong here.”

“Is that so?” Bill shrugs and looks over his shoulder as more figures step out of the shadows. Lydia starts because she could have sworn there was no one there a second ago.  She should have seen them coming, but they’re just...there. The newcomers are both men and women, and unlike Bill, many of them are armed.  Glancing around, the wolves all look as confused and off-balance as Lydia feels; they’re uniformly growling and their expressions are torn between game-face and disgruntlement at being caught off guard when they _should have sensed them coming._ They’ll figure it out later, for now...Lydia takes a quick headcount.  There’s twelve of them, twelve plus Bill which means they’re...badly outnumbered. 

 _Shit_.

Bill’s teeth gleam when he smiles. “Last I checked the preserve was open to the public.”

“This isn’t the preserve, this is Hale territory.” Scott says, squaring his shoulders, which is interesting because Scott _still_ hasn’t really joined the pack.  He’s more of an...adjunct.

“Ah _ha,_ ” Bill says, and there’s a murmur from the figures at his back, quickly cut off. “And where is Mister Hale?”

Lydia looks around at the others, who all seem to have come to the mutual conclusion that they’re not interested in information-sharing.  They’re hunters, have to be.  Lydia has no idea how they got so close without anyone hearing them, but here they are.  

Bill looks at each of them in turn, sighing in resignation at the tight-lipped stares he gets back.

“Ah, well,” he says, “I suppose we all have to make do with what we’ve got.”

And then things start to move very quickly.  All three of the werewolves tense at some unknown signal, and then Erica and Boyd launch themselves at the ring of hunters, shifting mid-leap.  Scott tackles Allison to the ground while Stiles shoves Lydia behind the nearest tree and dives after her.  From behind their tree, Lydia can hear the hiss of arrows, the _thunk_ when they strike wood interspersed with a more sickening squelch that means they’ve found flesh.  The wolves will be fine, but Allison’s not a wolf.  Lydia closes her eyes, hopes to hell Allison wasn’t hit, and starts mentally reviewing the first aid course she took over the summer in case of emergencies.

There’s a lot of yelling, followed by silence and then Bill’s voice, calling them to come out.

“Yeah _right,_ ” Stiles yells back, voice cracking slightly, “So you can turn us into pincushions?  No thanks.”

“We’re not going to shoot you.” Bill says, and he sounds amused.

Lydia rolls her eyes at Stiles, who makes a face back, and calls out, “You expect us to believe that?  We’re teenagers, not _idiots_.”

“Come out,” Bill says, “Or we _will_ shoot your human friend.”

Lydia and Stiles exchange glances, but it’s not like they’ll get very far if they run.  Apart from Bill’s voice, the clearing is eerily quiet.  Stiles shrugs at her and makes a face.  Lydia sighs, but they really don’t have too many choices.  Stiles grimaces and hisses, “If they shoot me, just run, okay?” then raises his hands and steps out from behind the tree.

“I’m coming out, don’t shoot!”

Lydia waits, holding her breath, then, when nothing happens, steps out as well.

Scott, Boyd and Erica are all lying on the forest floor, writhing in silent agony, each pierced with at least one arrow.  Bill has Allison by the hair, a knife to her throat.  She’s red-faced and her mouth is moving, but neither she nor any of the wolves are making any sound.

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Stiles says and Lydia feels her eyes widen.

“You’re not hunters are you?” she says, realization slamming into her.

Bill smiles, and steps away from Allison, who remains frozen in place.  He grins and sweeps them a mocking bow.

“No, we’re not.” he says, and, to his followers, “Use only as much power as you need to keep them quiet.” He motions to his silent cadre of followers, who fan out and begin moving forward.  “I suggest you come along quietly,” he says, and Lydia suddenly feels...remote.  Like she’s floating, and her limbs no longer belong to her.  She’s not _numb,_ exactly, but she’s definitely not in control.  It reminds her of Peter and it’s _terrifying._  From the panicked sound of Stiles’ breathing next to her, he’s having a similar experience.  “It will make things much easier for everyone.”

All around them, the other witches are yanking the arrows out of the werewolves, who have fallen unnaturally still.  Not a twitch, not a whimper. 

“ _Screw you_ ,” Stiles spits, at Lydia’s side, then chokes at a gesture from Bill. 

“ _Quietly,_ ” Bill says, “Being the operative word.  We’re not particularly interested in hurting you, but we will if necessary.”

Bill waves again and Stiles, who is slowly turning purple, gasps in relief and glares, but doesn’t try to speak again.  Scott and the other wolves are glaring from their places on the ground.  They universally look like they want to tear Bill into extremely tiny pieces, but they wisely hold their tongues.  Or, perhaps they’re still magically muted, which on second thought seems more likely.  Scott and Stiles do that thing where they communicate with their eyebrows and a series of minute facial expressions - at a guess, Scott is saying, “OH MY GOD are you okay?” and Stiles’ eyeroll and raised eyebrow in response is saying, “Yeah, fine, me and my big mouth, what else is new?”

Lydia snorts a little, because Stiles and Scott are _ridiculous,_ and then she doesn’t have time to think because Bill is waving one hand and Scott, Erica, and Boyd are rising from the ground in eerie unison with a strange, unnatural grace, and then they’re moving off into the depths of the forest, limbs propelled by an invisible force.

And that’s how Lydia finds herself being marched through the preserve by a coven of freaking _witches,_ with the better part of her pack incapacitated and gliding along beside her like ghostly puppets. 

Right as they’re leaving the clearing there’s a commotion, several of the witches breaking away from the main group, and the sound of more arrows whistling through the chill autumn air.  Lydia can’t turn her head but she can hear the witches chasing through the forest after something.  When they return empty-handed and cursing she smiles to herself – Derek or Isaac then, at least _someone_ will know what’s happened.  Neither of them can plan for shit, but Lydia feels marginally better anyway. 

*  *  *

They walk for what feels like hours, deep into the preserve, far from any of the trails Lydia knows.  Lydia is _beyond_ grateful for her sneakers.  The day she has to plan an escape in heels it will of course be both stylish and successful, but Lydia is woman enough to admit that in this particular instance, practical problems like _avoiding blisters_ and twisted ankles far trump fashion concerns. 

When they finally stop Lydia is more or less completely lost.  They’re in another clearing, a fairly sizable one. When Lydia gazes along the perimeter she realizes with a shiver of apprehension that the trees make nearly a perfect circle.  It’s actually kind of a creepily perfect circle and Lydia has a _very bad feeling_ about this. 

The invisible force compelling them forward eases off, and they all fumble to a halt in a clump.  The pressure lightens up and Lydia finds that while her feet seem pretty firmly glued in place, she can move her arms again.  The magical puppetry seems to be operating on an as-needed basis.  Lydia is guessing they’re either sloppy or conserving power; she’s hoping for the former.  

The witches (oh my god, there are actual witches.  Lydia really shouldn’t be surprised.) are gathered in a loose circle a few yards away, listening intently as Bill begins to speak. 

The walk here was conducted almost entirely in silence - the witches are not a particularly chatty bunch - so Lydia perks up her ears.  Around her, she can see the others doing the same.  Lydia can feel the force controlling her vocal cords easing; it appears the same is true for the others as well and Scott seems inclined to demand answers, but Allison shushes him.  Lydia catches Allison’s eye and nods in approval.  They still can’t _go_ anywhere, but they might be able to get some answers if they keep quiet and pay attention. 

“Everyone remembers their role, I trust,” Bill is saying, to nods from the assembled listeners.  “Hazel, you have the knives?” 

A middle-aged woman with a long braid of grey hair nods and pulls a wooden box from the backpack she’s wearing, opening it to display a gleaming array of...very specialized-looking knifes.  These are not meant for cutting steak, Lydia suspects, and from the muttered curses coming from Stiles’ direction, he doesn’t think so either. The blades shine silver but the handles look like -

“Bone,” Stiles mutters.  “Shit, shit, _shit.”_

Lydia kind of has to agree.

“Excellent.  Diego, the ash?” 

A tall man in probably his mid thirties with dark, curly hair holds up a large sack.

“Right here, Bill.”

Lydia listens with increasing alarm to the list of supplies they’ve brought along.  Wolfsbane rope; three backpacks full of firewood which is almost certainly also mountain ash, and which gets added to a woodpile stacked with meticulous care off to one side; a long, thin sort of cudgel, with a leather-wrapped grip; a silver basin...

“Bill,” one of the others, Hazel, Lydia remembers, says suddenly, “There’s too many of them.  We only need three.”

Bill spreads his hands and shrugs, unconcerned. 

“So we have options.  It’s not a problem.”

Lydia’s increasing inclination towards hysterical panic is short-circuited when Stiles, standing next to her, nudges her arm and jerks his head at Erica.  Erica is shaking her head, arms hugging herself.

“No,” she’s saying, “no no no not again, no.”

Boyd is holding her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, whispering something in her ear, but he looks like he’s only barely keeping it together himself. 

Lydia realizes abruptly that she’s not quite as frozen as she’d thought when she automatically tries to take a step towards Erica.  To her surprise, she finds she can move - not very fast, it’s like walking through thigh-high water, but she _can_ move.  Lydia presses her lips together and sidles as unobtrusively as possible to Erica’s side.  Reaching out, she gives Erica a vicious pinch, right at the thin skin of her side.  Erica starts, outrage overpowering fear as she whips her head around to snarl at Lydia.  Lydia stands her ground and glares back.

“Get it together!” she hisses, “You’re not a pathetic loser anymore, you’re a badass werewolf.  Fucking _act like it._ ”

Erica’s eyes flash gold, and she snarls at Lydia again, but even Lydia with her very human senses can hear Erica’s breathing evening out.  She sees Boyd squeeze Erica’s arm in reassurance, and looks back towards the witches, who are beginning to disperse across the clearing.  They’re all moving with purpose, so Lydia assumes they’re pretty much screwed.  Four of them, including Bill, head for their immobilized (mostly immobilized) prisoners.  Lydia catches Stiles staring at her, mouth hanging slightly open, and shakes her head at him sharply - if she’s the only one the spell isn’t sticking to properly, she doesn’t need the witches to know about it.  Stiles shuts his mouth and looks away.

Bill and his three companions stop in front of them, and then Bill makes a lazy gesture with one hand and Lydia feels herself being pushed away from the others. 

Or, well.  Not entirely away, Stiles and Allison are moving with her, which is when she realizes they’re separating the wolves from the humans and only just manages to stop herself fighting the spell with everything she’s got.  Lydia reminds herself that she’s _way_ too smart to show her hand prematurely for sentiment.  Sentiment is for losers and it gets people killed.  She allows herself to be pulled away, forces herself to ignore the way Allison is looking helplessly over her shoulder at Scott, the way Scott’s eyes are glowing gold, the veins on his neck standing out as he strains against the spell.

As soon as Lydia, Allison and Stiles are far enough away, two of the witches pour a circle of ash around Scott, Boyd and Erica.  When the circle closes Bill nods and the three werewolves shake themselves, crowding the edges of their ash prison, apparently released completely from the spell now that they’re effectively trapped. 

 _Conserving power_ , Lydia thinks.  _Check_. 

Lydia feels herself forced to the ground, sitting uncomfortably in the dirt, Allison and Stiles following after her. 

“Sit quietly and this won’t have to get unpleasant.” Bill says.

And then he and his companions move off to help the others with whatever sinister preparations apparently need doing.  It’s their first major mistake, and Lydia intends to make sure they regret it.

Lydia holds her breath, waiting to be forgotten.  It takes less time than she’d thought - overconfidence is going to be their downfall. 

“ _Lydia,_ ” Stiles hisses, “Can you move?”

“ _Yes,_ shut up!” Lydia hisses back, “You?”

“Still frozen,” Stiles says, and Allison chimes in, “Me too.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, “Okay.” 

Lydia’s brains, as it turns out, are not her only asset.  None of them are quite sure the extent of Lydia’s...peculiarity...but being immune to the bite of a werewolf has somewhat extensive implications.  It means that things of a supernatural nature don’t always work quite as expected.  They haven’t run into this kind of magic before, but Lydia’s had enough atypical reactions to supernatural shit that this isn’t a complete surprise. 

“I think it’ll wear off,” Lydia breathes, barely moving her lips, “Give it a few minutes.”

“Can you break the circle?” Allison wants to know, and Lydia eyes the distance to Scott and the others dubiously.

“I’ll try,” she says, “But we only get one shot at this.”

Allison hesitates, then says, “Do it if you can.  If not - just run, get help.”

Lydia doesn’t respond.  She doesn’t have time for guilt.  She pictures the immobilizing force around her as a deep pool of mud, slowing her movements, keeping her trapped.  She pictures a dark cloud, heavy with rain, a summer downpour, washing away the muck and leaving her unencumbered and free.  In her mind’s eye, the muck clings to her feet and ankles the longest, but after a few minutes even that washes away in sulky rivulets. 

Lydia opens her eyes, holds herself still.  She looks around the clearing - everyone seems occupied, and no one appears to be paying attention to them.  Lydia remembers hiding behind the tree with Stiles, how the witches hadn’t bespelled them until they had a direct line of sight.  Could be coincidence, but Lydia is betting it’s not.  If she’s right, it means she needs to get out of sight as soon as possible, which means...

Lydia takes a deep breath, whispers fiercely, “Don’t die while I’m gone.” And then she surges to her feet and sprints for the trees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taking a little longer to post than I thought, sorry! 
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO, does anyone know how to link to people's profiles in the credit-notes up top? I'm HTML challenged. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

It’s Stiles who notices it first. 

After Lydia had escaped Bill had been understandably furious.  Apparently no longer willing to trust to magical restraints alone, Stiles and Allison had been tied with their hands behind their backs, then fastened together at the wrists.  Scott, Boyd and Erica are still trapped a few yards off in a circle of mountain ash.  Erica and Boyd have their heads together, talking softly, while Scott sits at the furthest edge of the circle and stares at Allison.  Stiles is pretty sure they’re trying to communicate telepathically – knowing them, they might even be achieving some kind of success.  It’s been _hours_ and Stiles is staring out at the forest, trying to come up with some kind of escape plan when he sees movement in the dark.

“Hey,” he says out of the side of his mouth, barely moving his lips, and tweaks Allison’s fingers.  “Hey, I saw something.”

He keeps one eye on their captors, who are standing around the stack of firewood they’ve piled in the middle of the clearing, and stares hard into the trees.  Behind him, he feels Allison grip his fingers back, so he knows she’s watching too.

“What did you see?” she asks, her voice the faintest thread of sound.

Across the way, Stiles can see out the corner of his eye that the werewolves have all perked up their ears and are now trying, without much success so far as Stiles is concerned, to act nonchalant while at the same time glancing around frantically into the surrounding forest.

Stiles rolls his eyes and hisses, “Stop that!  More stealth, less freaking out!” Stiles knows they can hear him, and after a moment, they pull themselves together, trying not to look guilty.  Boyd is managing it best, Erica and Scott are hopeless.  Stiles just hopes the witches aren’t paying attention.

“I thought I saw Derek,” he says, as softly as he can.  “Can you guys sense anything?”

Allison who has a better line of sight, murmurs back, “They say no.  I don’t see anything Stiles, are you sure?  They _should_ be able to sense anyone nearby, right? Maybe something is interfering with their senses?”

Stiles frowns.  “I don’t know, I thought I saw something though, wait – there!”

Stiles jerks his head to follow the flash of motion, is straining to see more clearly when Allison tenses against his back.  Stiles turns his head slowly to find Bill standing over them, smiling a creepy half-smile.

“Uh, hi.” Stiles says, grabbing at Allison’s fingers and holding on. “Can we do something for you?”

“You’re quite right,” Bill says, instead of answering, “Your friends are out there.”  He tilts his head to one side as though listening and says, “They’re calling for you.”

Stiles swallows and doesn’t respond.

“There, you see?”

Stiles looks, and now he can see clearly – Derek is standing just a few yards away; he looks pissed off and frustrated and he doesn’t seem to have noticed Stiles and the others at all.  Lydia is standing at his side, saying something, and Stiles can _almost_ make out words, but it’s like everything is on mute, or underwater, or something and they’re _right there –_

Stiles lets out an involuntary sound of frustration, and Bill laughs.

“Go on, call them,” he says, tone warm and amused.

Stiles looks up at him, and he knows it’s a trap even without Allison’s warning pinch.

“Why can’t they see us?” he asks instead, and Bill smiles.

“Because we don’t want them to,” he says simply.  “They can’t see, hear, or smell you.  As far as they’re concerned, you don’t exist.”

Stiles grits his teeth, feels Allison sag against him.

“We really have everyone we need,” Bill is musing, “but it is a bit distracting having them nosing around.  Let’s send them on their way, shall we?”

Stiles watches, stomach clenching, as Bill unslings a bow from across his back.  Allison makes a small sound of distress, and Stiles realizes with a sickening lurch that it’s _Allison’s_ bow.  A few feet away, Lydia has moved off to one side, but Derek is still staring intently in their direction.

“ _Derek!”_ he yells, knowing it’s useless. “Derek, _run!_ ”

But Derek doesn’t run, he just stands there, scowling, looking straight at them and not seeing a thing as Bill aims one of Allison’s arrows at him.

Stiles twists frantically, following the trajectory of the arrow, hears Allison’s gasp and knows she sees it too.  Stiles isn’t too clear about specifics, but he’s pretty sure even a werewolf will have a hard time bouncing back from an arrow between the eyes.

Stiles takes a deep breath and reaches for what Deaton likes to call the _spark._ He closes his eyes and concentrates, remembers the circle of mountain ash, how he’d needed there to be _just enough,_ how he needs now for Derek to hear him. 

“Derek, _duck!_ ”

The words rip out of his throat, the sound somehow louder and more penetrating than human lungs and windpipes should be capable of producing.  In the sudden silence, Stiles can feel everyone in the clearing go still, hears the twang of Allison’s bow and watches as, at the last possible moment, Derek throws himself to the ground, the arrow passing harmlessly overhead.

Stiles sags in relief, and whispers, “Run, _run,_ you idiot, take Lydia and _run!”_

Stiles has no idea if Derek has heard him or not, but it doesn’t matter because he’s taking Stiles’ advice, scrambling to his feet and sprinting away into the forest, collecting Lydia on the way.

Stiles breathes out and leans hard against Allison, who leans back and grips his hands in triumph.  They both turn when Bill looms over them.

“You!” Bill says, expression thunderous, “You’re just a child!  How did you do that?  That shield is powered by our entire coven, _how did you do that?_ ”

Stiles knows he shouldn’t but he’s still giddy with relief and flushed with success, so he grins up at Bill and says, “Oh, you know.  I just wished really hard.”

“ _Stiles,_ ” Allison gasps, and this time it’s not a warning pinch it’s a “shut the fuck up before you get everyone killed” pinch.

Stiles shuts up, but it’s too late.  He can feel the ropes around his wrists loosening of their own accord, and then Bill is jerking him to his feet and away from Allison. Stiles stumbles, and falls abruptly in the dirt as Bill releases his hold on Stiles’ arm.

Stiles looks up to find that Bill is no longer holding Allison’s crossbow.  Instead, he’s holding what looks like a – like a yellow number 2 pencil, actually, and for a moment Stiles can’t think beyond gaping at the incongruity.  Then the pencil moves and Stiles feels himself pulled into a kneeling position by a force he can’t see and realizes that the pencil is somehow Bill’s equivalent of a magic wand.

 _Good disguise,_ he thinks, somewhat hysterically, as Bill waves the pencil at him, freezing him in place.

“We need you for the sacrifice,” Bill tells him, the other witches standing behind him in a silent half-circle, “but apparently our warding spell needs some shoring up.”

Bill gives the pencil-wand a lazy wave, and then, before he has a chance to panic about the _sacrifice_ part, Stiles is _screaming._

It feels like he’s being stabbed all over with white-hot knives, like his insides are melting, like his skin is being flayed from his body.  When it stops he finds himself curled in a ball on the forest floor.  He’s bitten clear through his lower lip, there’s blood under his fingernails and his face is wet with tears.  He spits blood and registers dimly that Allison is shouting and trying to crawl over to him.  Erica and Boyd are wolfed out and howling and Scott – Scott is _throwing_ himself repeatedly at the mountain ash barrier, eyes frantic and blazing gold.

“Stop,” Stiles whispers, throat ragged, “Scott, stop.”

Scott checks himself, then presses as close to the barrier as he can and _howls._

“Well,” says Bill, and he’s smiling again, good humor apparently restored. “That was educational.”

Bill drags Stiles back to Allison.  He makes a quick gesture, and then the old ropes are retying themselves around Stiles’ wrists, though this time at least his hands are in front.  Allison scoots over to Stiles’ side and leans down to whisper frantically, “Stiles, _Stiles,_ oh my god, Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles curls in on himself, shaking, and presses his forehead against Allison’s knees so she can feel his nod.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Allison is saying, “you sounded like you were _dying_ , Stiles…”  Allison shifts away, wriggles, and she must be pretty damn flexible, because suddenly her bound hands are in front of her too, and she’s tugging Stiles into her lap, holding him awkwardly.

“M’okay,” Stiles rasps, eyes closed. “Tell Scott.”

Somewhere over his head he hears Allison call over to Scott, hears Scott settling down, the comforting murmur of Erica and Boyd’s voices.  Derek and Lydia got away, everyone is still alive, and no one is currently being either tortured or sacrificed to a dark whatsit.  Stiles takes advantage of the lull and lets himself slip into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry, I meant to post sooner and it was meant to be longer, but, you know. Life.
> 
> Probably no updates for a week as I'm out of town with limited internet. Things should move along much faster once I'm back though. Apologies for the delay!


	4. Chapter 4

When Lydia Martin shows up at his door she’s more disheveled than Greg has ever seen her, except the once.  He’s used to Stiles pointing her out from afar, and to Stiles’ (no doubt airbrushed) descriptions of her perfection-in-every-way.  The girl on his doorstep is a _mess_.  Lydia’s long strawberry curls are tangled, she’s covered in dirt, her clothing is torn and she’s breathing like she’s just run a marathon.  She pushes past Greg without a second glance and heads straight for Hale, who reaches out to steady her with both hands.

“They’re not hunters,” Lydia says, panting, “they’re witches.”

“ _Witches_?” Greg hears himself say, voice high and incredulous, “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Lydia tosses him a glance over her shoulder, gives Hale and Isaac a quick once-over, and says, “We don’t have time, Mr. Stilinski, I think they’re going to kill them.”

Greg doesn’t even think to call for backup.  What is he going to say?  That he needs a few deputies to assist him, two werewolves and a teenage girl in tracking down a bunch of _witches_?

Greg doesn’t do any of that, just leads the way to his car, and follows Lydia’s directions to the section of the preserve Lydia said they’d picked for their “training session”, whatever _that_ was.  

They split up, so as to cover more ground - Hale and Lydia, Greg and Isaac; one werewolf with each team.  Greg and Isaac are still following the dead ends of scent trails when Hale and Lydia come bursting out of the trees to their left, running like the hounds of hell are on their heels.

“New plan,” Lydia says, bending over her knees and gasping for breath, “We should have thought of this earlier, but we are _way_ outclassed here with this magicstuff.  We need backup.”

“Backup?” Greg says, and why does he feel like he is _constantly_ playing catch-up here?  Always three steps behind?  It’s damn frustrating.

Lydia looks over at Hale, who is still bristling faintly from whatever had spooked the two of them so much.

“We need Deaton,” Lydia says, and Hale grimaces even as Isaac perks up.

“ _Alan_ Deaton?” Greg asks, just to be sure he is hearing correctly, “The _veterinarian_?”

“Yeah, that’s him, he helps us sometimes, he’s good with supernatural stuff,” Isaac says helpfully, just as Derek growls, “ _Fine_ , we’ll get Deaton.”

“What -” Greg says, and follows as the rest of the group heads back towards the car, “What _happened_?  Will someone _please_ explain what’s going on?”  Greg is getting _really_ tired of being constantly in the dark.  

Hale explains on the way to the car, in terse, clipped sentences which nevertheless have Greg’s skin crawling.  Stiles’ voice coming out of _nowhere_ , the arrow shot from an invisible bow by an invisible archer.

“I couldn’t sense them,” Hale says, with obvious frustration.  “If they were close enough to shoot, close enough to hear Stiles...I should have been able to smell them, hear them, _something_ , but it was just...blank.  Like there was nothing there.”

Greg doesn’t know anything about werewolf senses, but he gathers that this is Not Good.

As soon as Isaac gets cell reception he calls Deaton, hitting the highlights of the evening, telling him where they are and to hurry.  They meet Deaton partway, waiting at a gas station a few miles from the preserve. The moment Deaton pulls up, Greg flips his lights and peels out into the road - regs be damned, this is an emergency - checking the mirror every so often to be sure Deaton is following.

Deaton, as it turns out, is remarkably unflappable.   When they get back to the preserve he steps out of his car with a black knapsack slung over one shoulder.

“We’ll talk later,” he tells Greg, when Greg gives him the stink eye.  “For now - Lydia, you said they’re witches?”

“Unfortunately.” Lydia replies with a grimace, pushing a stray curl behind one ear.

“And they have some kind of invisibility shield?”

“Derek almost got an arrow between the eyes,” Lydia tells him again, “and we heard Stiles’ voice, but we couldn’t see or hear anything else, and Derek couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary.”

Hale is glaring again.  Greg thinks this is probably Hale’s default expression, but right now it looks somewhat disgruntled as well - must be disconcerting to have your senses fail you.  Greg can sympathize; his entire sense of reality is turned sideways at the moment.  

“Alright,” Deaton says, pulling what looks like a piece of quartz on a string from his bag.  “We’ll go back to where you heard Stiles’ voice.  Each of you should wear one of these - if they’re going to be invisible, so will we.”

“What do these do?” Isaac asks, eying his quartz necklace with what Greg thinks is entirely healthy skepticism.

“Quite a lot, actually,” Deaton says, imperturbable, “but one of the things it does is magnify and reflect.”

“It... reflects the invisibility?” Lydia says, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Essentially,” Deaton replies, with an approving smile.  “It will keep them from noticing us, at least until we find the shield.  After that all bets are off, but it buys us some time.”

Greg shakes his head in disbelief.  Four hours ago his world wasn’t exactly pretty, but it was relatively stable and above all, it followed a logical system of rules which by and large _made sense_.  The only thing that makes sense right now is the knowledge that Stiles is in trouble and needs his help.  Everything else is just going to have to wait.

“This way,” Hale growls,  “We’re running out of time.  Keep together and stay quiet.”

Everyone looks at everyone else, and then they follow Hale into the forest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. I'll post a longer one tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles wakes up because Allison is shaking him and hissing, “Stiles.  _Stiles._ Something’s happening, come on, wake up.”

Stiles isn’t particularly keen on rejoining the land of the Painfully Conscious, but Allison sounds freaked and Allison’s not easily frightened, so he makes the effort. 

Stiles regrets this decision almost immediately.  He’s groggy and feels like he’s been trampled by a herd of angry rhinos.  His lip hurts where he’d bitten through it earlier, and the blood under his fingernails turns out to be from clawing at his own arms.  _Nice going,_ Stiles thinks bitterly, like it wasn’t bad enough as it was. 

It turns out that Allison’s freaked because Bill and the better part of his...posse? Coven? Assorted henchpeople? are headed their way.  Stiles grits his teeth and lets Allison help him into a more-or-less upright position.

Bill stops by the werewolves.  Stiles feels Allison slip her hand into his and squeeze. 

“We need a volunteer.” Bill says, holding out his hands, like this is school and he’s asking who did the reading. 

Scott glares.  Boyd snorts and says, “Volunteers for _what?_ ”

“For the ritual,” Bill tells them, expression somber.  “You must have been wondering what you were here for.  Surely you’ve been paying at least some attention to our preparations?”

Scott, Boyd and Erica stare back at him, silent and sullen.

Bill spreads his hands and shrugs. “There are only so many ways to get a great deal of power very quickly.  All of them require ritual and few of them are pleasant.  So.  We need a volunteer.”

Stiles watches Scott’s eyes go from Bill to his coven of silent companions to the pile of firewood to the low, flat-topped boulder in the middle of the clearing and the truly alarming collection of implements laid out on top of it. 

Stiles holds his breath.  Beside him, Allison is close to breaking his fingers, but he’s holding on just as hard as she is.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” Bill says, slow and sardonic. 

“I’ll go,” Scott says, head high, eyes glowing, and shakes off Erica and Boyd when they try to protest.

Bill smiles, starts a slow clap.

“Very good.  It was going to be you anyway, but volunteering is so much nicer, don’t you think?”

“If it was already going to be me, why bother playing games?” Scott asks, glaring. 

To Stiles’ complete surprise, Bill answers him.

“There’s power in fear,” Bill tells him, and he sounds like a teacher giving a lecture, “but there’s also power in courage.  The fear is automatic, but courage requires opportunity.”

Scott growls at him, which Stiles thinks is _completely_ justified, then freezes mid-growl, along with Erica and Boyd.  Bill grins and breaks the circle.  All three of the werewolves are trembling visibly, fighting the spell, but none of them moves.  And then Bill gestures and Scott takes three jerky steps forward, out of the circle.  Two of the other witches come forward, tie Scott’s hands with what - from Scott’s reaction - has to be wolfsbane rope, loop another circle of rope around his neck, and pull him away.  As soon as the ropes are on, Scott sags, presumably released from his spelled-bindings, and tries to claw at the rope around his neck.  The tiny, red-headed witch holding the end of the rope around his neck gives it a sharp tug, and her companion, a tall, heavy-set man yanks the rope around Scott’s wrists.  Scott stumbles after them, breathing already starting to sound labored.  Stiles and Allison crane their necks to watch him go; Allison’s death-grip on Stiles’ hand is stronger than ever.

Hazel, the woman with the long grey braid of hair, steps forward and redraws the circle, completing the link.  As soon as it’s back in place Boyd and Erica stumble, released from the compulsion, and crouch, growling furiously.

Bill casts them an amused glance, then walks over to Allison and Stiles, who stare up at him defiantly.

Well, Allison is probably managing defiant.  Stiles is just hoping he doesn’t look as terrified and beaten as he feels. 

“Get up,” Bill says, and there’s an edge of threat to his voice. 

Stiles looks at Allison, and Allison helps him to his feet, where he stands, swaying.  Allison is supporting, like, 80% of his weight.  Stiles would be embarrassed, but he’s too busy trying not to throw up at the sudden movement. 

Bill draws his pencil wand and raises one eyebrow, smiling a little when Stiles flinches.  Allison is holding him by the arm and Stiles feels her grip tighten.

“Come quietly and we won’t have to repeat our little scene from before,” Bill tells them, and he’s still smiling, but he also looks like he’s remembering that Stiles is responsible for punching a hole in their shields and is still pissed about it.

“Fuck you,” Allison says, but it comes out, “We’ll come quietly”. 

From Bill’s expression he heard both, but he seems satisfied because he waves them over to the middle of the clearing. 

They go quietly. 

The one upside is that it takes them closer to Scott. Scott is kneeling, struggling to stay upright, like the rope weighs a million pounds.  His normally tanned skin is an unhealthy grey, and he’s wheezing in a way Stiles hasn’t missed at _all_ since Scott became a werewolf and left his asthma behind. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Scott pants, when he sees them, eyes flaring erratically, the shift out of control. “You said you only needed one.”

“Oh,” Bill says, and he sounds remarkably sincere, “My apologies.  Only one _werewolf._ ”

Scott snarls and tries to lunge but he’s both weak from the wolfsbane _and_ still tied up, so it’s not a resounding success.  Allison starts forward, then freezes in her tracks with a sharp sound of frustration. Stiles flails for balance while Allison looks at Bill and snaps, “Let me _go,_ you’re _killing him._ ”

Bill ignores her, turns away to summon his companions.  Stiles takes advantage of the momentary lapse in attention to stagger past Allison and collapse in the dirt by Scott’s side.

“Invisible,” he mutters, “I’m invisible, you can’t see me, I’m not here, I’m invisible.”

Scott looks at him like he’s crazy and Stiles gives him a manic grin.    

“Hey buddy,” Stiles whispers, reaching for the rope around Scott’s neck with still-bound hands. “Hang on.”

Scott gives him a jerky nod and maybe there’s more to that spark thing than Stiles had thought because Stiles manages to pull the rope over Scott’s head before one of the witches notices what he’s doing.  The witch shouts something that doesn’t sound like English - maybe Lydia would know - and Stiles loses control of his limbs again.

He and Scott stare at each other, frozen.  Stiles, who still has control of his mouth anyway, curses helplessly, but at least Scott’s breathing sounds better.  Then Bill is stalking towards them, face purple with fury, pencil-wand in hand.

“No,” Scott says, eyes widening, “ _No, don’t_.”

Stiles just has time to squeeze his eyes shut and say, “Here we go again,” when everything whites out into screaming agony. 

When he comes to, he finds himself already standing, spelled upright (which is probably good because Stiles doesn’t think he could stay vertical on his own power right now), mouth stuffed full of cotton and held in place by something that’s wrapped firmly around his head and cutting into the corners of his mouth.  They must have decided it’s safer if he can’t talk, that whatever _spark_ he has can be smothered with a gag.  For all he knows, they’re right - he’s not exactly an expert here, but it still seems like overkill to Stiles.  If they wanted him quiet they could have just magicked him silent as they had before - but then, after Lydia’s escape perhaps it makes sense to hedge their bets. At least Stiles isn’t tied up anymore, but he’s so wrapped in magic it doesn’t really matter.

There’s a...triangle of some sort carved into the earth, the lines thick and deep.  The corners are cut off into smaller triangles and in the middle is a circle of stones surrounding a small mountain of firewood.  From the very bottom of the pile, there’s a small, but steadily growing red glow, and Stiles can already feel the faintest waft of heat.  Stiles has a _really_ bad feeling about this.

Allison is a few feet away, standing in the triangle to Stiles’ left and she’s holding her bow, which makes _no_ sense.  Scott is standing about the same distance from Stiles as Allison, but in the triangle to the right.   He’s wrapped in wolfsbane rope, but someone must have made the executive decision that the noose-idea had been somewhat overkill, because they’ve left the rope off his neck.  He still looks awful, but he no longer looks like he’s going to _keel over_ and _die._ There also doesn’t appear to be any mountain ash in this set-up; the only thing restraining Scott is magic and poisonous rope.  Maybe mountain ash would interfere with whatever weird witchy ritual they’re doing.Stiles is grateful for small mercies. 

And then he stops being grateful, stops _breathing,_ because Allison is holding her bow and she’s strung an arrow and it’s _pointed at_ _Scott._ Stiles is frozen, muscles spell-locked, capable only of  watching in horror. 

“No,” Allison is saying, and there are tears tracking down her cheeks, “No, no, _no,_ stop, _please_ stop -  _Scott!_ Scott, I can’t - it’s not me, I can’t _move!_ ”

Scott is staring back at her, eyes wide and furious.

“You _fucking cowards,_ ” he yells, looking away from Allison,  “You don’t have the guts to shoot me yourselves?  You’re _pathetic._ ”

Bill smiles, and several of the circle of witches chuckle.  Bill waves his hand and Stiles sees Allison’s fingers shake on the bowstring. 

Allison sobs.

“Scott, I’m _sorry -”_

And then Scott is toppling over backwards with Allison’s arrow piercing his shoulder.  Allison drops the bow with a cry and covers her face with her hands.  There’s a murmur of approval from around them, and Stiles realizes suddenly that all the witches except Bill are standing in a circle, holding a thin silvery chain.  The chain seems to be one gigantic loop, and the witches are holding on to it with both hands at geometrically precise intervals.  The chain, Stiles notices, is pulsating with a purplish glow. 

Bill moves forward from the edge of the circle where he’s been standing.  He’s carrying one of the small, silver, bone-handled knives in one hand, and a sizable silver basin in the other.  He stops by Allison, sets the basin down and grabs her by the left arm.  There’s a flash of silver in the moonlight and Allison cries out again, this time in pain, as Bill holds her bleeding arm over the basin and squeezes.  Allison moans through her teeth, and there’s an angry snarl from Scott, who can’t see from his position on the ground, but can probably both hear and smell Allison’s pain, the scent of her blood.

Stiles reminds himself that if he throws up he’ll probably choke to death, which, in addition to being extremely unpleasant, would be embarrassing as hell.

After about a minute Bill apparently decides he’s collected enough blood and releases Allison’s arm.  Allison pulls her arm close against her body and Bill is _really_ lucky Allison’s not a witch because if looks could kill he’d be in about a million pieces right now.  Bill apparently does not appreciate how dangerous Allison can be, because he just smiles, freezes Allison in place, and pulls what looks like a small, empty, chem-set test-tube from one pocket, holding it up to Allison’s face.  Stiles is confused for a moment, then he realizes that Bill is _collecting her tears._

“Thank you my dear, that’s all for now,” Bill tells her, stoppering the tube and stashing it in a pocket.  Then he moves over to Scott. 

He doesn’t bother with the knife this time, just reaches down and twists the arrow in Scott’s shoulder until Scott has contributed to the blood-bowl to his satisfaction.  When he’s done, he yanks the arrow out and drops it point first into the basin like a stir-stick. 

And then it’s Stiles turn. 

Stiles does his damnedest to fight the spell, but he’s pretty much going nowhere fast.  The look Bill gives him is full of false sympathy, but he doesn’t say a word as he slices into Stiles’ arm.  He’s careful to avoid the artery - wouldn’t want the sacrifice to die too soon - and Stiles figures he’s lost at least a pint of blood by the time Bill lets go of his arm and stands up, carrying the basin over to the flat-topped boulder.  _Stone table,_ Stiles thinks hysterically, _oh my god he’s like the White Witch._ Stiles tries not to follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

Bill pulls out the test-tube and holds it up to the moonlight, which is lighting up the clearing more brightly than Stiles would have thought possible.  Bill unstops the tube and tips it into the basin. 

There’s a flash of purple, and then Bill is stirring the mixture of blood and tears and chanting something Stiles can’t quite make out and doesn’t want to anyway.  Scott has pulled himself to his knees at this point and the three of them watch as Bill paces slowly around the circle.  He appears to be dipping the silvery chain-thing into the blood-bowl, coating it thoroughly.  The witches move their hands to accommodate, but Stiles notices they’re careful to always have at least one hand touching the chain.  They’re probably going to die, but Stiles files it away under “Good to know, keep in mind in case it might save our lives later” anyway.   

When Bill has completed the circuit and the chain is no longer silver, but a hideous, glistening, rusty red and still surrounded by that eerie purple glow, Bill stops and dips his fingers into the bowl.  He makes a second circuit, this one slower, stopping at each person to draw a line of blood across his or her forehead, with matching lines across each cheek.  Bill paints his own face last, and the final stroke seems to be some sort of signal, because all twelve of the witches raise their faces to moon as Bill begins to chant, pacing around the circle for a third time.  Stiles isn’t really getting much of it, something about the sun and the moon and the earth and the Power of Three or some shit. Whatever it is, it seems to be working (which is _absurd_ )because when Bill gets back to his starting point and the chanting ceases, the bloody face-paint ignites into a purpley phosphorescent glow.  It instantly makes everything about a hundred times creepier. 

Stiles watches, hypnotized, as Bill walks over to the collection of implements on the boulder.  They’re in three groups - the long, leather-handled baton, a set of the bone-handled knives, and one larger knife with an obsidian blade, off by itself.  Bill lifts each of the objects in turn, starting with the baton.  

From all around them, the circle of witches speak as one.  “What offering from the sun-world?”

“From the sun-world,” Bill replies, his usually lively face now solemn, eyes fixed on Allison, “a sacrifice of bone.”  

Then he lifts one of the bone-handled knives, turns it so the blade glints in the moonlight.

“What offering from the moon-world?”

“From the moon-world, a changeling pelt, under a changeling moon.”  Bill glances at Scott as he speaks and Stiles feels all of his hair stand up on end.  When he looks across at Scott and Allison, he can see they’ve understood as well. 

“And what offering from the earth-world, the twilight realm?”

Now Bill raises the obsidian blade, which seems to drink in all the light in the clearing, and looks straight at Stiles.

“From the earth-world, a beating heart.” Bill says, eyes glinting black in the moonlight.

Stiles feels all the blood drain from his face, but he still can’t move, all he can do is stare, and listen helplessly as the ritual continues.

“These three things we offer,” the circle intones, “Bone, and skin and substance.  These three things, and the lifeblood of three, purified by fire, offered as a sacrifice, to the living heart of the ancient forests.”

The fire in the center of the circle is really going now, and it casts crazy shadows that flicker and dance with the flames.  Bill’s shadow, dancing with the others in the firelight seems...odd.  It’s somehow thicker, more substantial than Stiles’ own shadow, or Allison’s or Scott’s, which are twisting and writhing as though trying to escape.  And Bill’s shadow...Bill is not wearing a hat of any kind, but Bill’s shadow has _horns._ Not even cliché devil-horns, but, like, _antlers._ It is officially the creepiest thing Stiles has ever seen and that includes Gerard Argent’s eyes.  

Then the chanting stops and Bill lifts the baton once more and heads for Allison.

Stiles yells into his gag and Scott, across the way, is _bellowing_ at Bill to leave her alone, leave Allison alone.  If Stiles had had the time or mental energy for it, he’d be impressed at the range of threats and imprecations Scott is apparently capable of producing under pressure.  

Allison, her face bloodless in the silvery light of the moon, watches in horror as her left arm rises of its own accord.  Nothing has even happened yet, but as the three of them struggle against their restraints, there’s a strong flash of purple from both the chain and the blood-paint. 

Then Bill is raising the baton, bringing it down with a _crack_ that makes Stiles flinch.  Allison screams, still frozen, and stares at the unnatural angle of her arm, sobbing in pain.  Scott is completely wolfed out, struggling with the ropes, frantic to get to Allison, and there’s an even stronger flash of purple from the circle.  When the flash fades, the remaining light is significantly brighter than it had been.

Whatever this spell is, it’s got ingredients.  Allison is the Sun, and they need her for bone and maybe just _breaking_ her arm will be sufficient because _ugh_.  Scott is obviously the Moon, and they need his...his _skin._ And Stiles.  Stiles isn’t quite supernatural, but he’s not entirely normal, either.  Which must make him the representative for the Twilight Realm or whatever-the-hell, and means they’re going to fucking _cut out his heart._

Stiles shakes out of his reverie as Bill walks back to the boulder, replacing the baton and lifting one of the bone-handled knives.  He’s taken exactly two steps towards Scott, and the purple light is growing steadily stronger when there’s a resounding _crack_ and a flash of red light that leaves Stiles blind and blinking frantically to clear his vision.  And that, naturally, is when all hell breaks loose. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Lydia, what do you see?”

Greg watches impatiently as Lydia frowns in concentration. 

“I - I’m not sure.  I can’t _see,_ exactly, it’s more like...there’s a sort of itching in my head.”

Deaton is nodding, like all this makes some kind of sense. 

“What else?” He asks, prodding. 

“I - it’s stronger in that direction.” 

Lydia points, eyes screwed shut in concentration.

Greg moves in the direction she’s pointing before anyone can stop him.  He’s tired and scared sick for Stiles, and it’s been _hours_ and it feels like they’re running in place.  He hears Deaton shout a warning behind him, and then there’s a flash of red light and a jolt and he finds himself being flung backwards through the air.  His fall is stopped when he collides with Hale, who tactfully keeps a hold of his elbow until Greg finds his feet again and gets his breath back enough to gasp, “What the _hell_ was that?”

Deaton’s expression is as imperturbable as ever, but he’s watching Lydia closely.

“Lydia?” he asks.

Lydia, green eyes open again, is staring at Greg in shock.

“It’s a force-field,” she says, voice shaky. 

“Quite right,” Deaton says, smiling, and, turning to Greg, “I wouldn’t touch it again if I were you.”

“Force-field,” Greg says, focusing on the salient information.  “So we’ve found them.  They’re here?”

“Mostly likely,” Deaton replies.

“How do we break it down?”

Deaton looks again to Lydia, who looks between them uncertainly.

“We have to drain it, don’t we,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

“Great,” Greg says, shaking Hale off. “How do we do that?”

“It needs a conduit,” Lydia says, and stands up straighter when Deaton gives her a nod of approval.  “And...it has to be a _living_ conduit doesn’t it.  A person.”

Deaton nods again and Greg is stopped from moving forward by Hale’s hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” Hale says, eyes flaring red, and Greg sees red himself because _Stiles_ is behind that force-field or whatever voodoo nonsense is going on here and Greg Stilinski is busting down that barrier come hell or a plague of werewolves. 

“You’re human,” Deaton says, his expression sympathetic, “You _might_ be able to drain it, but it would kill you, and even then, your death might backfire and feed into the shield.”

“Can a werewolf be a conduit?” Isaac asks from Hale’s side, and Deaton nods again.

“Yes.  Your healing abilities should protect you.  But - it would be helpful to know what’s powering the shield.  Different power sources can require different methods of breaking through.”

Isaac looks dubious, but Hale squares his shoulders, shoves Greg in Isaac’s direction with a muttered order to “stay here” and stalks towards the force field.  He holds out one hand and walks forward until there’s a spark and another flash, and then Hale is backing away, snarling, hair standing on end.

“What,” Lydia asks, “What is it?”

“Pain,” Hale spits from behind elongating teeth, “they’re powering it with pain.”

“ _Whose_ pain?” Deaton asks, intent.

Hale glances at Greg, just a quick flash of eyes before he looks away again, but Greg doubles over, sickened.  Only Isaac’s unnaturally strong grip on his arm stops him throwing himself at the damn force-field and ripping it apart with his bare hands.

“It’s breakable,” Deaton is saying, “but you’ll have to channel all the pain and all the power.  It won’t be pleasant, or easy, but it is possible.”

“I can handle pain,” Hale says, stoic, and Greg just stares at him, because _Jesus._ He’d only touched the barrier for a second, but it had been _agonizing._ Even the memory of it makes Greg shiver.

“That’s not all,” Deaton says, hesitating.

“Yes?” Hale is still half shifted, clawed hands curled into loose fists.

“For it to work, you have to be a _willing_ conduit,” Deaton says, watching Hale carefully, “It’s not enough just to want to break the force-field, you have to _accept_ the pain and counteract it, or even your healing won’t stop the feedback loop.”

Hale stares at him, breathing hard.

“You’re saying that because draining the force-field causes me pain, I’ll just be feeding power back _into_ the shield unless I counteract it with something?”

Deaton tilts his head and blinks once in affirmation.

“Counteract it with _what?_ ”

“With positive emotion.” Deaton says delicately.

“Wait,” Lydia says, “Positive emotion...like, what kind of _positive emotion_ are we talking here?”

“Positive emotion for the source of the energy.”

“For Stiles,” Lydia says, eyes wide, “Positive emotion _for Stiles._ ”

“To break through completely?  In essence, yes.”

Hale looks like he’s swallowed a lemon and Greg wrenches forward.

“I’ll do it,” he hears himself say, voice harsh, “I’ll do it, I’m his _father,_ I’ll do it.”

“You can’t,” Deaton says, impassive, “You’re human, it will kill you.”

“I _don’t care,_ ” Greg says, “You need someone who loves him to break that force field?  These people shoot kids full of arrows and from what you’ve said it sounds like they’re _torturing him_ to power this thing.  I’ll do it, _damnit_ Isaac _let me go!_ ”

“Don’t let him go, Isaac,” Hale says, looking back briefly to lock eyes with Isaac over Greg’s shoulder.  Greg feels Isaac’s grip tighten, senses his nod. 

“Derek,” Deaton says, in the gravest tone Greg has heard from him yet, “It could kill you too.  Some things are too much even for supernatural healing to fix.”

Hale just looks back at Deaton, staring him down, until Deaton nods, and steps back.

“Derek Hale,” Greg says, in a voice he doesn’t recognize, “I swear to god if you keep me from getting to my son I will hunt you down myself.  You can’t even break it! It has to be someone who _cares._ What do _you_ care for Stiles?”

Hale meets Greg’s eyes and says simply, “I care.”

Greg is struck dumb for a moment at the possible implications of Hale caring _that much,_ before collecting himself and resuming his struggle against Isaac’s (unfairly solid) grip.

Hale ignores him, ignores all of them, and walks forward again, both hands outstretched.  He stops after a few paces, and now that Greg knows where to look he can see a kind of shimmer in the air, like heat-waves over the tarmac on a hot summer day - except that it’s fall and freezing.  Hale pauses, collecting himself, and says over his shoulder, “Don’t touch me.  And be ready.  We’ll have to move fast.” 

And then he reaches forward, pressing his palms flat against the invisible wall.

The effect is immediate.   There’s a flash that leaves everyone watching wincing and blinking spots out of their vision, and when Greg looks back up Hale is standing, head thrown back in agony, smoke rising around his fingers.  As Greg watches, Hale’s head tilts forward and, incredibly, instead of jerking away he leans _into_ the barrier, snarling.  The wall seems to bend under Hale’s weight, hissing and spitting like water on a hot skillet.  Hale sinks to his knees, his whole body  twitching, but he doesn’t move his hands away from the wall, and Greg can feel Isaac tensing behind him.

“Come on,” Greg hears himself saying, “Come on, _come on_.”

Hale is panting now, skin chalk-white.  He bares his teeth at the wall, then bows his head and sways forward.  Hale’s lips are moving, but Greg can’t make out what he’s saying. At his shoulder, Isaac is making a high, keening sound of distress and the marks of his fingers are going to be visible on Greg’s arms for _days,_ but Greg can’t really blame him.

Greg is on the verge of despair when there’s a humming sound like ten thousand bees, followed by the brightest flash yet.  Greg ducks his head and looks up in time to see Derek Hale pitch forward face first onto the forest floor, directly across where the force-field used to be. 

Greg barely registers Isaac releasing his hold, because all four of them are pelting forward.  Isaac and Lydia throw themselves down by Hale’s side; Greg draws his gun and stands over them, wary and alert for danger.  Greg doesn’t understand _magical force-fields_ but he’s guessing you can’t break one down without attracting some unwanted attention.  Deaton is standing beside him; he’s unarmed, but he’s a fellow adult and his presence is solid and reassuring.        

“We don’t have much time,” Deaton says, “They’ll know we’re here, we have to move.”

Greg nods and looks down at the man who just drained a wall of pain-energy to help save his son.  Lydia and Isaac  are still crouched at his side. 

“Hale - _Derek_ ,” Greg says, clearing his throat.  “How is he?”

Isaac looks up, eyes wide and concerned.

“Unconscious,” Isaac says, “I don’t understand.  He’s a werewolf, he should be healing.”

Deaton shakes his head and smiles his slight, enigmatic smile.  “Even werewolves need some time to recover from brushes with magic.  He’ll be fine, but he might be a bit weak for a while.”

“Right,” Greg says, making an executive decision. “Lydia, stay here with Derek.  You have Allison’s Taser?”

“Right here,” Lydia says, drawing it.

“Good,” Greg says, “Shoot anyone who isn’t us.  Isaac, you come with us.  We’ll be back as soon as we can.  Stay low and keep out of sight until Derek’s back on his feet.”

“You got it, Sheriff,” Lydia says with a salute. 

At her feet, Derek stirs, pushes himself up on one elbow with what looks like a monumental effort. 

“I’m coming,” he slurs.  “We have to go, they’re hurt -”

Lydia, Greg, Deaton and Isaac exchange nervous looks, and then Lydia waves them away.  “Go,” she says, “I got this, go!”

Greg glances at Isaac and Deaton, gets firm nods from both of them.  He doesn’t like to split up the group but -

“Shut up Derek,” Lydia is saying, as Hale tries stubbornly to get to his feet.  “You can’t even stand up, just chill out for a minute.” She looks up at them and glares.  “What are you still doing here?  I said _go!_ ”

Greg sends a quick prayer to anyone who might be listening that he isn’t about to leave an injured man and a teenage girl alone in a forest full of force-fields and shadowy villains to their doom, and then he and Deaton and Isaac move forward into the dark.  

 

*******

Stiles realizes he can move again at the same time Bill, white-eyed in panic, yells, “DON’T BREAK THE CIRCLE!”

But it’s already too late.  At least two of the witches have loosed their hold on the blood-dipped chain, blinking in confusion and stumbling away as though stunned.  Bill is running past Stiles and Stiles seizes his moment.  He makes for the boulder as fast as his rubbery legs will carry him and snatches up the baton before staggering after Bill.  The purple light is pulsing erratically and sparking in a way that looks _really_ dangerous.  The remaining witches seem to be struggling to maintain their hold on the chain, and Bill is clearly doing damage control. 

Stiles lifts his borrowed weapon and cracks Bill over the head as hard as he can.  He’s still pretty weak and his hands are slippery with blood, but Bill goes down with a _thud_ , bleeding sluggishly into the dirt. 

There’s a collective moan from the circle of witches, which rises into a shriek as the purple glow intensifies.  The chain is now sparking wildly, and there’s a white-hot burn under the purple light.  Every witch still holding on is twitching and jerking as though holding a live wire. 

Stiles backs away, back to the center of the circle, where Scott has crawled over to crouch by Allison.  Allison has managed to get the wolfsbane rope partially untied, but she’s hampered by her broken arm.  Stiles helps and tosses the rope into the fire, which hisses and spits in response.  The purple glow is still getting stronger, and Stiles hunkers down by Scott and Allison, rips the gag out of his mouth and shouts over the racket, “I think it’s gonna blow, stay down!” 

Scott nods and does his best to wrap himself around the two of them like a living shield.

The shrieking reaches a crescendo and then cuts off with a deafening _bang._ Stiles, Allison and Scott all flinch as the bonfire flares up into a column of purple light and then recedes, leaving behind a forlorn pile of ashes. 

When Stiles peeks out from under Scott’s arm, he sees that the circle of witches is just _gone._ No chain, no people, no purple light.  When he looks closer, getting unsteadily to his feet with the aid of both Allison and Scott, the three of them leaning on each other for support, all he sees is a series of scorch-marks.

“Don’t mess with dark forces, huh?” Stiles mutters, and gets a weary laugh from Scott.  

Then Boyd and Erica are bounding towards them and someone is yelling Stiles’ name. 

“Wha - _Dad?!_ ”

Stiles finds himself pulled away from Scott and Allison and into a crushing hug.  He hugs back, caught between confusion and fear because _what the hell_ is his dad doing here? 

“Oh my god,” Dad is saying.  “Stiles, you’re okay, you’re alive! ... _are_ you okay?” 

Stiles feels himself released, held at arm’s length, his dad’s hands big and reassuring along the sides of his face, checking him for injuries. 

“Dad, I’m fine,” Stiles says, rubbery knees making him a liar, “I’m really fine, Allison’s worse off.” 

Stiles’ dad gives him a narrow-eyed look, but glances over to where Scott is fussing over Allison’s arm.  Erica, Boyd and Isaac - who seems to have showed up as well -  are crowded around her too, drawing black lines of pain from her skin.  Deaton - _Deaton_?! - is standing at Scott’s side, helping to examine Allison’s arm.

Dad shakes his head and says, “Okay.  I’m just going to stop counting the crazy things tonight.  I think it’ll be much better for my mental health.”

“That’s probably best,” Stiles agrees without thinking and finds himself skewered with his dad’s most ferocious glare.

“I mean,” Stiles says weakly, “I’d be happy to tell you everything I know once we get home and nothing’s trying to sacrifice us to the Dark Forest Gods or whatever.”

What little color there was in his dad’s face drains away, and Stiles hisses, “ _Shit,_ shit, I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry, we’re _fine_ now, I promise, it’s okay.”

“You’re grounded forever,” Stiles dad says, pulling him close again, voice thick. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a sigh, “I kinda figured that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I switched POV halfway through. I think this is better than two shorter chapters, but if people have Thoughts about POV and stylistic choices etc I'm all ears. Still figuring this stuff out.


	7. Chapter 7

When they get back to where they’d left Derek and Lydia, there’s no one there.  Greg looks around, frantic, yells, “Lydia! Derek?”

The werewolves are instantly on alert, sniffing the air, but it turns out not to be necessary.

“Here!” Lydia calls. 

They’re not too far off.  Derek is sitting propped up against a tree, eyes closed, skin paper-white.  Lydia is standing by his side, Taser in hand, and there are two downed witches at her feet. 

“That one’s dead,” Lydia says, with a careful sort of steadiness that makes Greg think she’s waiting for safety and some hot chocolate to have her breakdown, “Derek was too out of it to pull punches.  This one,” she nudges the other witch with one foot, “this one’ll be fine.”  She frowns.  “I think.”

Greg sighs in relief.  He finds he can’t bring himself to be _too_ upset about the dead witch - not when his son is still pale-faced and bloodied and swaying on his feet.  He remembers that these are the people who shot a teenage boy full of poisonous arrows and powered a force-field by _torturing Stiles._

Stiles uses the moment of distraction to duck around Greg and drop down next to Derek.

“Derek,” he says, in a tone Greg recognizes as a (wildly unsuccessful) attempt at casual, “Derek. Derek, wake up.  What the hell man, come on!  Lydia, what happened?” 

“After he knocked himself out draining the power out of that shield, you mean?” Lydia asks, raising one delicate eyebrow.  She doesn’t seem too worried, so Greg figures Derek is probably fine, but Stiles just looks up at her, face blank.

“He did _what?_ ” Stiles asks, one hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Drained the shield,” Lydia says, and now her voice does falter a bit, “We had to break it down to reach you.  It...wasn’t pleasant.” Lydia seems to realize the cavalry’s arrived and that it means she can stand down, because her stance relaxes and she drops the Taser to her side, putting one hand out to brace against Derek’s tree. 

Stiles turns back to Derek, eyes wide. For a moment he bows his head, whispers, “Shit.  _Shit,_ Derek, really?”  Then he seems to pull himself together, looks up again and taps Derek’s cheek lightly. 

“Would’ve killed your dad,” Derek slurs, eyes still closed, and Stiles goes completely still.

“What?”

“The shield.” Derek manages, shaking his head a bit and slitting his eyes open.  

Stiles looks over his shoulder at Greg, eyes so full of a combination of terror and relief Greg feels like he’s looking into a mirror.

“Stiles?” Derek’s eyes are only half open; it doesn’t look like he’s registering anything.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’m here.” Stiles says,  turning back and giving Derek’s shoulder a squeeze. 

Greg watches, bemused, as Derek tilts his head back to look up at Stiles, then reaches out to wrap one hand around Stiles’ arm.

“Stiles.” Derek says, “You’re okay?  Are you okay?  Is everyone okay?”

“I’m fine, dude, we’re all fine.” Stiles say, then amends hastily, “Well, I mean.  Mostly fine.  Everyone is alive, anyway, it’s all good!” 

Derek doesn’t smile or anything - Greg’s starting to think anything other than a scowl might break his face - but he relaxes a little, sagging back against the tree and closing his eyes again.

“Derek,” Stiles says, with forced energy, “Come on buddy, up.  We’re not carrying your furry werewolf ass out of here.  Let’s go.”

Derek stirs with a faint groan, and Stiles grins.

“There we go,” he says with satisfaction, as Erica, Boyd and Isaac drop down next to him.  Isaac reaches out, but Derek stops him with a weary shake of his head. 

“Won’t help,” Derek says, “It’ll just burn you out.  It’s magic stuff, it doesn’t work like normal injuries.”

Isaac hesitates. “How do you know?”

Derek frowns.  “I - I don’t know, but I think I just have to wait it out.  I’ll be fine.”

Derek reaches out a hand and Greg watches the younger werewolves tug him to his feet.  Derek staggers and sways, but stays upright with the help of Boyd and Erica, who slide under his arms, taking most of his weight between them.  Stiles is hovering uncertainly. 

“Is that it?” he asks, gaze darting around the forest, “No more surprises?  All witchy-types present and accounted for?”  

“I believe that’s everyone,” Deaton says, looking around.  His expression is a bit sad.  “With the exception of this one here, the backlash took care of almost everything.”

“I think her name’s Hazel,” Lydia puts in, still leaning heavily against the tree.

Greg leans down to roll the unconscious witch onto her back.

“Hazel _Rozovsky_?” he says in disbelief, “The _botanist?_ I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” Deaton tells him, and Greg curses silently because now Stiles is safe and he has mental space to think beyond his son’s immediate safety, the weirdness of this whole night is almost overwhelming. 

“...what the hell am I supposed to do with an unconscious botanist?”

“Witch,” Deaton corrects him, voice mild.

“Witch, whatever.  What do I _charge_ her with?”

“Kidnapping?” Stiles offers, “Assault?”

“Attempted murder,” Derek growls, from between Erica and Boyd, and Greg pinches the bridge of his nose hard.

He’s not sure how he’s going to pin all that on one middle-aged woman, especially when all of her co-conspirators are either dead and _vaporized_ or, well, or just dead which is another thing Greg is going to have to figure out some way of explaining.  Some way that _doesn’t_ involve the truth, obviously, because law enforcement generally and the legal system in particular are just not built for dealing with the supernatural.  Greg can feel a headache building behind his eyes and he’s pretty sure no painkiller in the _world_ is going to be up to neutralizing it, now or for the foreseeable future.

“Alright,” he says after a moment, “Alright, we leave the dead witch here for now, it’s a long hike back.  We’ll take...Ms. Rozovsky with us.  We need to get Allison and Stiles to the hospital - I’ll figure out how I want to play this on the way.”

Stiles gives a jerky nod, then looks away.  Lydia pushes away from her tree, and Deaton and Isaac stoop to haul the unconscious witch up off the forest floor.  Derek’s upper lip curls in the hint of a snarl, but he doesn’t protest.  When everyone is ready, Greg gives the signal and they all begin making their way back to the road and their parked cars.  

When they get to the parking lot, Deaton pulls Greg aside.

“Listen,” he says, expression serene as ever, “I think you’ve realized by now you’re not exactly equipped to deal with this.  You have no evidence, and a jail cell might not be able to hold her.  It would depend on how good she is.”

“What are you suggesting?” Greg asks, already suspecting the answer.

“I have...facilities,” Deaton says delicately.  “I can keep her at the clinic until I can call in some people I know who deal with this kind of thing.”

Greg stares at Deaton for a long moment, then reaches up with one hand to rub his aching head.

“You’re telling me...there’s some kind of...procedure for this?”

“We have our methods of dealing with rogue elements.” Deaton replies, which is not at all reassuring, but Greg doesn’t really see what he can do about it.

“What kind of methods?” Greg asks.  He’s a cop - vigilante justice makes him _itch._  

“She’ll be held where she can’t do any damage, tried and, depending on the outcome, she’ll either be released under close watch or stripped of her magic.”

Deaton sounds so matter-of-fact Greg almost forgets to stumble over the part about being “stripped of her magic”, whatever _that_ might mean.  Still, Greg doesn’t really see any other options. Deaton’s right - Greg and his officers aren’t remotely equipped to deal with this.

“Alright,” Greg says, more tired than he can remember being in years.  “Alright, fine.” 

 

Scott calls his mother from the road.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m fine, Mom, but we need some help.  Allison’s got a broken arm and I think she and Stiles are both going to need stitches.”

Stiles is riding shotgun, where Greg can keep an eye on him.  He’s quiet and pale and the blood on his arm and all over his hands glistens nearly black in the moonlight. 

“No,” Scott says into the phone, “No, everyone’s fine, we’re all fine except for Allison and Stiles.  No. No.  Yes, we’re on our way.  I love you too.  Yeah, we’ll be there soon.”

Scott, Allison and Derek are all squeezed into the back seat of Greg’s cruiser.  Deaton, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are in Deaton’s car.  The witch is in the trunk.

Greg had raised an eyebrow at that, which Deaton had returned with his deceptively mild stare.

“It’s warded,” he’d said, “Witches generally need some kind of focus to work.  We took everything that might have been useful, and she’s still unconscious.  It should be fine until I can get her back to the clinic.”

Greg shakes his head, remembering, and keeps his eyes on the road.  Everything about this night is _way_ above his pay grade.

Deaton trails them to the hospital, where Lydia, Erica, Boyd and Isaac disembark.  Deaton drives off with Ms. Rozovsky; Greg watches him go and tries not to feel like he’s betraying his sworn oath as an officer of the law. 

Melissa McCall meets them at the front desk and hustles them past reception and into a side room.  She sizes them up and hands a clipboard of forms to Greg, with instructions to fill them out thoroughly.

Derek, Lydia and Isaac collapse into chairs along the wall pretty much instantly.  Allison and Stiles perch on the examination table, Scott hovering nearby.  Erica and Boyd are alert, keeping a sharp eye on the door. 

Melissa gets Allison settled and begins an examination of her arm, while Greg leans against the wall and works his way through the stack of forms. The initial inspection is pretty quick; it’s only a few minutes before Melissa sighs, pulling off her gloves and moving over to Greg.

“I can stitch them up,” she says, “But I’ll need to get one of the doctors to deal with Allison’s arm.  It will probably take a little while.”

She doesn’t look happy, but she also doesn’t look even a _little_ bit surprised.  Like calls from her son regarding incoming injuries, kids coming in with broken bones and strange gashes is _normal,_ like this is an unfortunate but unfortunately not-unexpected occurrence. 

“You knew,” Greg says, setting the clipboard down, and so much has happened already tonight, he shouldn’t feel this betrayed. “You _knew_ and you said nothing.”

Something of what he’s feeling must be showing on his face because Melissa takes a step back, and Scott takes a quick step forward to stand beside her.

Greg holds up his hands and backs off, struggling to control the buildup of all the fear and anger and frustration of this god awful night.  Melissa lays one hand on Scott’s arm and says, “It’s alright Scott, I’d feel the same if our positions were reversed.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells Greg, “It wasn’t my secret to tell, and I had to protect Scott.”

Greg supposes that makes sense.  He’s not sure how he would have reacted if he’d learned his son’s best friend was a potentially murderous otherworldly supernatural being without a crisis for distraction.  Probably not terribly well.  And the repercussions if the government were to find out, or, hell, mercenaries, the mob, weapons specialists...information like this in the wrong hands could get extremely dicey extremely quickly.  Greg can’t fault Melissa for protecting her son, he just wishes it hadn’t resulted in _his_ son nearly getting killed as part of some kind of occult ritual. 

Greg gives her a jerky nod, glances over at Stiles to find his son watching him closely.  When he meets Greg’s eyes he swallows hard and looks away.

Greg picks up the clipboard again and Melissa sighs. 

“I’ll clean them up and send Allison along to radiology.”

 

An hour later Stiles’ arm is wrapped in a fresh white bandage, and Allison’s is encased in a baby-blue plaster cast. Both of them have been cleaned up somewhat, but it’s going to take more than soap and water to fix the cuts and bruises decorating Stiles’ face and arms.

Greg looks at his son, takes a deep breath and reminds himself that the people who did this are (mostly) dead, and that it could have been much, much worse.  Stiles seems to know what he’s thinking, because he gives Greg a lopsided grin and a little wave. From his chair by the wall, Derek snorts.  He’s looking a little better, Greg notes.  Less like the walking dead.

“Alright,” Melissa says wearily, “You’re all set.  Let me know if anything else comes up, but they should both be fine.”

Everyone looks at everyone else, but that really does seem to be it.  There’s nothing left to do but go home.

Scott, Allison, and Lydia go home with Mrs. McCall.  Allison’s father is out of town and she’s staying with them.  And then it’s just Greg, Stiles, Derek, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica sitting around staring at each other and trying to figure out what to do next. 

“We’ll go,” Derek says, pushing himself up out of his chair by the wall. He’s still moving like every step is painful, movements careful and brittle.

“What, to the depot?” Stiles scoffs, “You’re joking, right?”

Erica and Isaac wilt and even Boyd looks forlorn at the thought of trekking across town to - the old train depot?  Really?  _That’s_ where these kids have been living?  Greg scrubs both hands over his face wearily. 

“We should let you get home,” Derek says, voice and body language and everything about him stiff and awkward. 

“Shhyeah, I don’t think so,” Stiles says, hopping down off the examination table and limping forward, eyes narrowed. 

Erica and Isaac perk up and Boyd smirks. Greg watches in amazement as Stiles pokes Derek hard in the shoulder, watches as Derek flails for balance and sits down hard on the nearest chair.

“You’ve got precisely as much energy as a drunk dung-beetle and you’re not going anywhere.  You can all stay with us tonight.  Right, Dad?”

Greg yanks himself out of his thoughts long enough to say, “Oh, yes.  Yes, of course.”  He’s not sending a bunch of traumatized kids to spend the night in the _old train depot._

They make their way out of the hospital, as sorry a collection of exhausted people as Greg’s seen in a long time.  They take the cruiser.  Stiles rides shotgun again, and they squeeze Derek, Isaac, Erica and Boyd into the backseat, because no one else has a car. 

Home again, all the werewolves except Derek collapse in the living room.  Derek remains standing, swaying on his feet but clearly unwilling to relax just yet, keeping an eye on the others.  Greg eyes them all critically and says, “I’ll get some sleeping bags.”

He catches Derek’s eye and gives him a brief nod.  Derek blinks back at him in response and sags a little.

“Thanks,” Derek says, sinking into a chair. “We’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

Greg can’t help but be a _little_ bit impressed.  Derek Hale is apparently nothing if not stubborn.  He’s clearly dead on his feet, but he’s still trying to look after his little group.  Derek can take the next few hours off, as far as Greg is concerned.  Greg has no reservations at all about running a werewolf hostel for the evening, considering the alternative. Or, well.  No reservations that aren’t currently being overruled by _basic human decency._

Stiles rolls his eyes and tugs at Derek’s arm. 

“Right.  Up you get, bedtime for sleepy Sourwolf.”

Derek growls, but even Greg can see his heart’s not in it, and he allows Stiles and Isaac to haul him off the couch and up the stairs. 

Erica claims the couch, Boyd and Isaac set up camp in sleeping bags on the floor.  Greg is pretty sure they’re asleep before he’s gotten out of the room.

When he gets to the door of Stiles’ room with the last sleeping bag he finds Stiles sitting next to Derek Hale, who is, apparently, passed out on Stiles’ bed. Stiles looks up as Greg stands there in the doorway, and shifts as though to stand.  Derek is _out_ but the movement must register at some level because Derek flinches, curls in on himself with a small, pained sound. Stiles turns back, mouth twisting into an unhappy line.  He sits back on the bed and reaches out to lay one hand on Derek’s head, muttering, “Chill, dude, it’s okay.”   Derek settles back into sleep, and Stiles looks up to meet Greg’s eyes. 

“He saved our lives,” Stiles says, voice soft.  “It was the shield coming down that distracted them.” 

Greg clears his throat. 

“I know,” he says.  “I owe Derek Hale a lot tonight.”

Stiles nods, gets up to hug Greg tight, clumsy and awkward with his bandaged arm. 

“Goodnight son,” Greg says, “Get some sleep.”

Stiles nods and Greg pads down the hall to his own room.     

***

Greg wakes a few hours later from a nightmare, one where Derek brought the shield down too late, where he arrived in that clearing to find Stiles dead on the ground, surrounded by the bodies of his murdered friends.He lies in bed until his breathing evens out, then goes to get a glass of water.  He drains the glass, splashes cold water on his face, and stares at himself in the mirror. 

He looks older, he thinks.  Older and greyer.  Greg snorts at his reflection and goes to look in on Stiles.

When he gets to Stiles’ room he stops short.  Stiles is not curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor as Greg had expected.  Instead, Stiles is lying in a tangle of limbs and bedding on his bed.  Derek Hale, sometime criminal suspect and full-time _werewolf,_ is wrapped around Stiles like a living blanket, one leg thrown over Stiles’, an arm across Stiles’ chest, face tucked into the curve of Stiles’ neck.  He looks much younger, asleep, though even unconscious he looks...defensive.  On guard.  Stiles is awake.  He sees Greg and flushes, two spots of red high on his cheeks, but he meets Greg’s eyes steadily.

“Um,” Stiles says, “I can explain?”

Greg shakes his head in weary resignation.  Stiles is home, safe.  His house is full of werewolves and there’s a 22-year-old man asleep in his son’s bed, sleeping off the effects of literally draining a wall of pain-energy to save Stiles. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Greg says, and Stiles nods back at him.  He’ll process all this in the morning. As he turns away he sees Derek shift, sees Stiles raise one hand and lay it gently on Derek’s head, fingers carding through Derek’s dark hair.

“Go back to sleep Sourwolf,” Stiles murmurs, far, far too much affection in his voice, and, for a wonder, Derek Hale seems to obey, relaxing under Stiles’ touch.

Greg backpedals swiftly - Derek saved his son’s life, and Greg is pretty sure that entitles him to a bending of the rules that until now have not been necessary.  They’ll talk boundaries tomorrow, for now, he’s invaded a private moment, and he’s backing the hell off.

...They will _definitely_ be talking boundaries in the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

Derek wakes up with his face mashed into Stiles’ shoulder.  He’s tucked under Stiles’ arm and he can feel Stiles’ hand splayed warm against his ribs.  When he’d crashed it had been like everything had just shut down, all his senses were muted and dull, like trying to have conversations under water.  Now everything seems to be working again.  He can smell Stiles, grimy but _alive,_ can smell most of his pack downstairs, hear breaths and heartbeats that are steady and even.  Everything feels...normal.  Or, _abnormal_ really, because what Derek mostly feels is _safe._

Derek closes his eyes and allows himself a moment to just lie there.  He’s kind of sprawled all over Stiles, but Stiles has got an arm around Derek too and if he moves he’ll just wake Stiles and, and - from the level and intensity of the pain that had gone into the shield, Derek had been half-expecting to find they’d powered it with Stiles’ _life force,_ drained him dry. 

It’s as unacceptable a prospect in the morning light coming through Stiles’ window as it was last night in the preserve.  Derek can’t help pushing his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder, reassuring himself Stiles is here, and alive.  He doesn’t realize he’s growling until Stiles stirs.

“Ngggh,” Stiles says. “Oh, god, my _everything._ ”

Derek tamps down on the growl and forces himself to start disentangling.  Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, pushing himself painfully upright, moving like he’s aged a hundred years overnight.  He scrubs at his face with his hands and mumbles, “Shower.  Shower shower shower oh god I’m so filthy and _everything hurts._ ”

Derek growls again, good mood vanished.  It seems to wake Stiles up.

“Derek?” Stiles says, blinking in the sunlight, “You alive man?  You were pretty beat last night.”

“Fine.” Derek says, and it’s true.  He still feels a bit weak, but it’s nothing a shower, a few thousand calories and another couple days of sleep won’t cure. 

“Good,” Stiles says, and smiles around his bruises. “I’m just gonna, go.  Shower.  Thing.”

He grabs some clothes from a drawer and vanishes.

Stiles comes back twenty minutes later, smelling of soap and toothpaste.  His hair has grown out since Derek first met him, and it’s sticking up in damp little clumps.  He’s wearing jeans and a loose grey t-shirt with a logo Derek doesn’t recognize.  His arms are covered in angry red scratches, his left forearm arm is wrapped in a now-soaked bandage, and his pale skin is scattered with bruises. 

Stiles sees him looking and grimaces. 

“Yeah, mostly self-inflicted.  Didn’t know what I was doing when they zapped me with the doohickey.” 

Stiles makes a vague gesture, and something in Derek’s chest loosens when he realizes Stiles is moving more easily.  He’s not permanently injured; he’s going to be fine.  Derek nods, narrows his eyes, trying to take inventory without touching.  He has to resist the urge to run his hands all over Stiles, sooth the scratches, draw the lingering pain.  He doesn’t know what to do with people who don’t heal _instantly,_ never has; his human siblings used to drive him _crazy_ when they got hurt.  Stiles’ skin is still damp from the shower, there’s a tiny rivulet of water dripping down his neck - Derek wants to take Stiles by the shoulders, push him up against the wall and lick it off.  He clenches his fists at his sides instead, lets his claws extend to dig into his palms. 

Stiles gives him an odd look.

“Shower’s yours,” he says, “I’ll see if I can find you some clothes.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles gives him a lopsided grin.

“I’ll see if I can find something that’ll fit,” he promises.    

Derek raises both eyebrows to indicate his opinion on the likelihood of _that_ happening as Stiles eyeballs him, assessing, possibly sorting clothing options in his head.  Derek rolls his eyes and heads for the shower. 

A _cold_ shower, oh my god.  This better be magical aftereffects or something, because Derek is not _nearly_ as in control as he needs to be. 

Once in the shower, Derek scrubs at his skin, sluicing away hours of blood, sweat and grit, the sour smell of his own fear.  He can’t _believe_ he fell asleep like this, but he’d been almost too tired to remember his own _name_ the night before and then Stiles was there and...Stiles is _seventeen,_ Derek reminds himself fiercely.  He’s still a _child_ and Derek has no right to ask...anything...of him.  It’s not fair to Stiles.  Just because Derek is having a magic-induced emotional meltdown doesn’t mean he has the right to drag Stiles into it.

...And now Derek is standing naked in the shower, thinking about Stiles and his quicksilver movements, his smirking, lopsided grin, his stupid _freckles..._

Derek scowls and turns the water as cold as it will go.  God damn witches, anyway.

***

When Derek gets back to Stiles’ room Stiles is stripping the bed, moving with care to accommodate his injured arm, and there’s a pile of clothes on the floor that Stiles must have borrowed from his dad.  Derek snorts, but starts pulling them on.  The clothes are clean, at least; his are covered in dirt and sweat and Isaac’s blood.  These will do, for now.

Derek turns as he’s pulling on the t-shirt to find Stiles gaping at him, mouth hanging a little open. When he meets Stiles’ eyes Stiles shuts his mouth with a snap, blushes crimson and stammers, “Um.  We should.  Breakfast.  Downstairs. Pancakes?” and flees.

Derek pauses to take a few deep breaths, then follows Stiles downstairs.

 

 ***

 

When Stiles gets downstairs the first thing he sees is his dad digging out a package of bacon from the back of the freezer.

“Oh no you don’t,” Stiles says, kneejerk, and takes a step back when his dad fixes him with a glare.

“Oh yes, I do,” Dad says, and his expression is slightly manic.  “Turns out werewolves exist!  And witches.  And you almost _died_ last night which we are _still_ going to talk about, but in the meantime, the world owes me bacon.  Now suck it up and fire up the stove.”

Stiles swallows.  “But -” he starts weakly, and his dad cuts him off, pointing the package of bacon at him sternly.

“Bacon.” Dad says, in his most no-nonsense tones, “and _then,_ we’re going to have a little chat about Truth in Dating, and the perils of older men.”

Stiles can feel his mouth flapping like a fish.

“But - wha - _what?!_ Dad, if this is about last night, I can totally explain.  Werewolves just get, you know.” Stiles lowers his voice.  “They’re very _clingy_ sometimes, that’s all.  There’s really nothing going on.”

“Come on, Stiles,” Dad says, “I might be old, but I’m not stupid. That Hale boy damn near fried himself draining that shield.  He nearly killed himself to get to you, you think I don’t know what that means?”

Stiles just stares for a moment, dumbstruck, then, with a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the living room where the rest of the werewolves are (oh please god) still asleep, Stiles hisses, “ _What?_ What are you talking about?”

“The shield,” Dad says, and suddenly his expression is haunted.  He’s not really looking at Stiles anymore, seeing it over in his head.  “Deaton said the only way to get through was to drain the shield - it was keeping us from you.  I wanted to break it down, but Deaton said the energy involved would kill a human.”

Stiles nods, starting to see the shape of it. He’d gotten some of this last night, but only the bare outlines, and it was all pretty fuzzy. 

“But the werewolves could drain it?  Because of the healing thing?” Stiles guesses, and his dad nods.

“Yes, but Deaton said the healing wasn’t enough.  It needed something more, or it could create some kind of a feedback loop, make the shield stronger instead of draining it.”

“So...”

“So it was your - it was _your pain_ Stiles, they were powering it with _your pain_ and it had to be someone who cared about you - someone who _really_ cared about you - to counteract, and I wanted to tear that thing apart with my bare hands, but Derek wouldn’t let me.”

Everything greys out for a few seconds as Stiles stares at his dad in horror, brain looping the important part of that sentence. 

“Derek said - it would have _killed_ you. You were going to try to drain the shield _anyway?!_ What the _hell_ Dad, you would have  _died!_ You do _not get to do that!_ ” 

Stiles forgets completely to keep his voice down and by the time he’s finished he’s yelling, face hot, fists clenched. 

“Don’t you _dare,_ Stiles, _don’t you dare_ tell me what I can and can’t do,” Dad says, stopping what he’s doing to face Stiles directly.  He’s not yelling but it’s somehow much, much worse than screaming would have been.  “You were in danger and there was only one way to get to you and if you think I wouldn’t throw myself into the _fires of hell_ to protect you, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Don’t,” Stiles says, and he can hear his voice cracking, “Dad, _please,_ you can’t -” Stiles feels ill, puts one hand out to brace against the countertop.  “Dad you can’t…I can’t lose you too.”

Stiles dad looks back at him, standing straight, eyes steady.

“You go before me over my dead body,” Dad says, and Stiles has never seen him so serious.  “I’ve lost a lot in my life and I’ll be _damned_ if I’ll let you go first.”

Stiles feels his vision blur; he spins on his heel and bolts.

He’d forgotten, for a moment, that his living room was full of werewolves. Stiles stops short when he comes face to face with Isaac, Erica, Boyd and Derek, all standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with the uncomfortable, guilty expressions of people who know they’ve overheard something private they were never meant to hear. 

Stiles blinks furiously, knuckles at his eyes and lashes out at the nearest target. 

“God _dammit_ Isaac, you _knew_ he didn’t know, you _knew_ I was trying to keep him out of this!  What the _hell_ did you come to him for?”

Isaac looks away, shoulders hunching and looking so much like a kicked puppy that Stiles regrets saying it immediately, even without Derek’s warning growl.

“He was _dying,_ Stiles,” Derek reminds him, voice sharp, one hand stretched out to rest on the back of Isaac’s neck.

Stiles feels awful _,_ but he’s too furious for caution and he still wants to break things.  Derek is tough, he can take it, and it’s _his fault_ anyway _._ Stiles rounds on Derek with something like relief.

“ _You,_ ” he says, “One thing, I ask for _one thing_ and now my dad’s involved and I can’t believe you let this happen!   I don’t - you -” Stiles chokes on guilt and accusations, turns and slams out of the house.  

 

***

Derek finds Stiles at the tree line, forehead pressed into the bark of a cedar, trying to control his breathing.  Derek stands there, hands firmly in his pockets until Stiles turns around, looks up at him through red-rimmed eyes and says bitterly, “You just had to drag him along to confront the _murderous fucking witches?_ He could have stayed here, he would have been _safe._ He was supposed to be _safe._   I can’t lose him, Derek, I can’t.”

“He’s your father,” Derek says.  He remembers Sheriff Stilinski sitting down with him and Laura after the fire, telling them their parents had died trying to protect their younger siblings, that he knew this was the hardest thing in the world, but to remember that their parents had loved them more than anything.  Laura had thanked him, choked and shell-shocked.  Derek had been too numb to even cry, and the Sheriff had meant to be kind but his words had burned like acid. 

He’d been right, of course.

“He’s your father,” Derek says again, “You can’t ask him not to fight for you.  He would never have stayed behind, you must know that.”

Stiles shakes his head.  “I couldn’t.  I couldn’t handle it if he died because of me. He’s _all I have,_ Derek.  He wasn’t supposed to know, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“It never is,” Derek says, because it’s all he _can_ say, and Stiles looks up again, so fiercely, desperately miserable that Derek is forced to look away.

“Derek,” Stiles says after a moment of silence, slow, like he’s figuring something out, “Not that I don’t appreciate you keeping my dad from - from killing himself, but, couldn’t you have let Isaac help with the shield?  I get the werewolf thing, but why you?”

Derek grinds his teeth.

“I’m the Alpha,” he says, which is true, but not the truth. From the look on Stiles’ face, he’s not buying it.

“So, what, Isaac couldn’t help out?”

“Isaac was still recovering.”

“So you’re the only one who can take responsibility?”

“The pack _is_ my responsibility,” Derek snaps, “That’s what being the Alpha _means._ ”

Stiles is silent, staring at the ground.  Derek growls in frustration and starts to move away, but Stiles grabs a handful of his t-shirt and holds him in place.

“That’s not it though, is it?  You’re not telling me everything.”

“What?”

“My dad, he thought, he thought we were, um.  Dating.  He said to counteract the shield needed someone who - who _cared._ About me.” Stiles' tone is wondering, and Derek looks away.

“It’s not important, Stiles, just let it go.  It doesn’t mean anything.” Derek is actively leaning backwards now, away from Stiles, but Stiles is still hanging on to Derek’s shirt and -

“No,” Stiles says, stubborn and insistent, “No, it _is_ important, you - you _like_ me.  Don’t you.  Oh my god, you do.”

Derek rolls his eyes and tries to figure out how to pry Stiles’ hand off his shirt without breaking his fingers first.  Stiles, at least, seems to be calming down.  His pulse is a little fast, but Derek is pretty sure it’s not because he’s freaking out. 

“Stiles,” Derek tries, giving Stiles’ hand where it’s tangled in his shirt a pointed glance. “Let go.”

“Nope,” Stiles says, and Derek recognizes the expression on his face with a sinking feeling that starts in his chest and goes all the way down to his _toes._

“Nope, I don’t think so.  You _like_ me.  I don’t have a built-in lie detector, but I’m pretty sure I’m right about this.  And I don’t know how it’s escaped your super-duper werewolf senses the last few months but I’m not exactly _indifferent_ to you.”

Derek takes a deep breath through his nose.  Stiles is right, but he’s wrong, too.  Of _course_ Derek can sense his...attraction, but it’s not exactly _directional._ He’s been assuming it was aimed at someone else.  At Lydia, most likely, or that it was just the general State of Being for a teenage boy.  He remembers being that way himself, and he won’t, he _will not_ take advantage of Stiles’ youth and confused mess of teenage hormones and emotional impulses. 

“If I’d known all it took was getting almost-sacrificed by witches in the dead of the night to get here I’d have done it _ages_ ago,” Stiles says, and he’s grinning a little, but his heart skips a beat in remembered terror and Derek leans forward, growling. 

“Oh, shut up Sourwolf, I’m kidding.” Stiles says, and kisses him. 

Derek feels his whole body jerk - he’s been _so good,_ he’s been resisting this for _so long,_ and now Stiles is _kissing him_ and Derek has to push him away, can’t let him do this -

“Stoppit,” Stiles mumbles, threading nimble fingers through the hair at the back of Derek’s neck and squeezing for emphasis. “You’re over-thinking this.”

Derek tries to pull back, can’t make himself shake loose of Stiles’ careful grip.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, despairing, “You have _no idea._ ”

“Yes I do!  I know _exactly_ what I’m doing.  Tell me I’m lying.”

“You’re lying,” Derek says, and can’t help smiling just a little.  Stiles is mostly telling the truth, but not quite.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles says, narrowing his eyes at Derek, “I don’t know _exactly_ what I’m doing, _technically,_ but I _want_ to know what I’m doing.  And I want to be doing this.  Here. With you.  _Now_ tell me I’m lying.”

Derek listens, and feels his breath catch.

“You’re not lying,” he admits.

Stiles is not smooth.  He’s jittery and awkward and hyperactive and he’s not lying.

Not that it matters.  Stiles is seventeen.  He doesn’t know what he wants, and even if he does, his opinion doesn’t count because he’s _seventeen._

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Derek says, “You can’t possibly know.”

“I can fight for my friends and face down imminent doom on a biweekly basis, but I can’t make decisions about who I want to,” Stiles blushes furiously but soldiers on, “who I want to date?” 

Well, when Stiles puts it that way it’s a little harder to argue the point.  Derek opens his mouth to argue it anyway, but Stiles cuts him off.

“We almost died,” Stiles says, quiet but intense, “We almost died and you could have died and you stopped my dad from killing himself trying to get to me, and I’m _still_ pissed he’s involved in all this but right now I just found out you apparently _like_ me so I think we should save the epic blowout fight for another time and do some more kissing.”

Derek closes his eyes and holds himself very, very still.  He feels Stiles’ hand tugging at the back of his neck, Stiles lips pressing tentatively against his.

Derek gives up and kisses back. 

Stiles makes a tiny, startled sound in the back of his throat and then _plasters_ himself against Derek.  He’s all tongue and enthusiasm and Derek lifts both hands to tilt Stiles’ head just a little, for a better angle, communicating with slight bits of pressure.  Stiles’ moans into Derek’s mouth and Derek breaks away for a second to murmur, “Stiles, relax, it’s not a race.  We’ve got time.” It has the exact opposite of the intended effect because Stiles says, “Oh my _god_ ” twines his arms around Derek’s neck and kisses him like he’s drowning and Derek is the only oxygen in the world.

Derek wraps one arm around Stiles’ back, holding him close, and goes with it. 

“Breakfast’s ready!”

Derek jumps about a foot at the sound of the Sheriff’s voice, and looks around in time to see the back door of the Stilinski house bang shut.  Expanding his awareness, he can hear the Betas cackling gleefully and winces - they’re going to be _insufferable._

He looks back to Stiles, who is staring up at him, pupils blown wide, lips red and swollen, face flushed crimson. 

“I-oh, god, we’re a mess,” Derek says, and Stiles buries his flaming face in Derek’s shoulder and laughs. 

“We should go in,” Stiles says, when he can talk again.  “Maybe if I let him have some bacon he’ll forget about grounding me for a million years.”

Derek raises one skeptical eyebrow and Stiles sighs.

“Yeah, well.  It’s worth a shot.  Alright, Sourwolf, let’s go face the music.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, it's done! Thanks for coming along for the ride. :)
> 
> In case anyone was wondering, I wrote this for a friend who requested: 
> 
> //I would like to prompt you to write a story with Daddy Stilinski--you'd have to give him a name--and any character except Stiles or Mrs McCall.
> 
> **pref growing grudging respect for Derek (and vice versa), but any kind of plot or vignette is fine
> 
> bonus 1: they team up to rescue Stiles and Stiles is at least partly able to rescue himself  
> bonus 2: letting Stiles and Derek stay male for a change//
> 
>  
> 
> Ahahahhaha. Well, here it is. Hope it satisfies. :)


End file.
